Monday, January 10, 2011


My brother gave me a heavendress to wear. It is a gift.

It isn’t enough to look at it.

Repeat over I am not wrong and over. Again.

We have been discussing first divisions.

And reconsiderations.

And recurrent dreams about splintering coffins and the nature of the horizon.

Once, he was filled with doubt.

Doubt is my double and doppleganger also called Mistress also Insomnia.

Capital I.

We are two.

Flickery she and I take turns neglecting the light. We anti-watchmen.

She wants to wear my heavendress in organdy.

It is wool. I insist.

She feels scratchy. My brother says, accept her. I. is not wrong, I am supposed to say.

But, he says, remember there is no supposed to.

My brother is infuriating like the helmeted greenman on The Flintstones, Mork on Happy Days. At least I know the aliens on X Files were real, not simple intertextuality, the name we give to mind-wounds or -candy in excess.

What if I bleed on my heavendress?

Then it is red.

And if I rip it?

It is already rags, my brother says, more beautiful than the skins of angels.

Is that what you wear? I ask.

It is what we are both wearing now.

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