Olivia Erlanger “The Oily Actor”
February 19 – March 26
Between licking the inside and peeling back, desire, shipwrecked, oscillates.
Creaking open, splitting seams, a penny is always on the tongue.
One time I tried to grab it… Slippery, it flipped! Like a fresh caught fish smacking against a swift
stream bed. There the tongue resides in its hollow bunker. Behind in a shallow pool, the lake of mind
heaves, placidly, plastically, unbroken by oars.
As I attend to my other work, I turn its face down. Face down, I slowly leave fingermarks all over the
soft and viscous interior. Clear as glass, each object that comes in contact becomes a grubby mark.
Satisfied, my surgical sight notices the surface has become arid, cracked, baked, split like a perfect
madeira cake. I mask your topography. A new layer cloaks, compresses, what had begun to sag and
Suturing, you start (and start) to appear.
Consider the Sleuth.
Who, as he snoops, steps quickly behind the lamppost becoming a line,
becoming a shadow.
He is the lamppost and the lamppost is the Sleuth.