I struggle to document and share projects, especially when they are in progress. It seems to be a fairly common problem for some people, and I’m working out ways to improve. In that spirit, I am excited to say that I am in the (almost) middle of a two-month residency at Generator. Just shy of two years old, Generator is a maker space in Burlington, Vermont housed in the Memorial Auditorium building. It is my goal to learn to make more efficient, stronger and interchangeable components for my ongoing puppet project. If you are familiar with my work, you may know that I’ve been making large doll/puppet/costume things for several years. I’ve settled on Puppet Drag to describe the strange hybrid I’ve got going on. So far, I have learned some basics about machining, laser cutting, 3D printing and electronics to apply to future puppets. I am grateful to have the opportunity to work at Generator with so many interesting and talented people. I will aim to share more here soon. Until then, a picture of my Krampus puppet loitering outside Generator.
Ash carapace settled on every jut of bone. I see your outline there. I can’t blink. You rest now by the side of the road in a trash bag covered with frost. Left this way, nameless. Whisper one of the stories to me. Tell me your mother once drove you two neighborhoods away with the box of kittens warm on your lap. Told you to leave them on the corner under the Ruggles sign. Years later, it would be a dog and a field in Goochland. Comprehension denied. Return to your seat wearing her blood stained underwear. The elastic woman kind. At school, they talk of a problem and it’s you. Knowledge of rot as long as you’ve had breath. Fortunate you, decomposition is a state of comfort. I write you because I dig for wrists and fingers when the soil is soft. I sprint against the hard freeze.
The rain is burning your skin now.
Let it burn.
You are given one promise at birth.
A death specific to you,
Laid away, antique wedding dress in the attic.
Documents found once they’re gone
Speaking to you in a way they never did.
Now, these pieces are yours to hold.
Why not hold them in the stinging rain
As the grass tells you each blade is for you?
We burn so briefly
But we have the power to make it feel like eternity.
Fox just moved in
Across the street from your house.
White pickets mirror
Tiny sharp teeth lining his jaw.
You’re stalked from the rise of sun
To last light of day.
The barnyard block gossip
Has you cooked and plated
Before the week is out.
They call dibs on your down
To line their beds.
They say his shiny black beetle eyes
Fixed on you the moment the light
Hit your feathers…just so.
His tongue wagging anticipation.
Best not move around so much.
Catch his eye and he’s caught you,
Hypnotized by the flicking white flame
At the end of his tail.
The lightning flash shows your lawn
Aflutter with wings,
A last line of whiteness to bind you.
A feast for the flock.