CIP

...midnight, on the Cross Island Expressway...your eyes turned into digitized pools in the moonlight...

This weekend was all about pop song choruses and suburban psychedelic fantasies coming together on one lawn, for a limited time offer only, we fixed picnic plates and frequencies on cell phones and hashed it out by the lake. We made graphics and recorded tapes of our conversations. We scrambled eggs and turned on cable and admired perfect flower arrangements, pearly white teeth and finely cut mod trouser crotches.

A video camera came Fed Ex. I signed for it in the doorway, ripped open the envelope and let it slide out onto my palm.

I want to film a dark empty theater in which a film is being shown. The film is of a dark empty theater, identical to the first one except thatthere are people projected upon the chairs. The projections are in black and white. They flicker like Princess Leia in her hologram message.

They’re the audience, looking up at a blank screen and seeing something play on it.

Although it is impossible to know exactly what they are watching, one can get a feeling for the point the drama is at by the expressions and movements of the faces.

(When I finally make my film and play it, I’ll have it timed so it breaks off in the middle, the screen turning white just as things were getting good.)

I can feel my cells dividing—I can feel them piling up inside of me, one atop the other at breakneck pace.

I rapped a little the other day, by myself at the ocean, standing in the surf and facing the waves with the dark-eyed windows of the beach mansions behind me, flat roofed and ominous, like set pieces for a David Lynch flick.

we agree to forget the previous evening and focus solemnly upon the Sunday drive to the Sunday obligations…

(reproduction=doubling the bill of memories)

Your son your daughter your fuck your marriage.

Your pink barrettes.

Sterling, sterling, Sterling…I want to take it.

I know.

I feel like we can pull something out of the hat.

Yes. When we’re together. I mean, when we’re on the same team.

I know what you mean. I got you. Sterling, you’ve got to start realizing that I’ve got you.

Yes.

And Fitz too.

And Fitz too. Absolutely.

He’s kind of like the origin.

What do you mean?

Of both of us. He hatched me in Oxford and then I hatched you.

OK.

You feelin me?

There’s only one problem with any of that.

Whuh baby?

Everything that you do—I happen to have already done.