A.T. Grant

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SNUFF BOX MODEL (WEARING A HOOD, LYING ON A LONG WHITE CAR, AWARE OF ARTIFICE):

I am so happy we have the showroom. This is the beginning of the showroom; the showroom is white and infinite. I welcome you into my heart. I let you in, I already love you. Do you feel the warmth that rises from my love. I am so happy my love is a rising heat. I am so happy we have global warming. I stay up late at night and love it, feel its warmth. I stay up late at night and touch nothing and sweat into the white sheets the colors of my body. I stay up late at night and dream of the hot white light that comes to destroy me. [LAUGH TRACK] In the heat of my destruction I pick up a telephone. I call an answering machine and speak into it my message to the ages. It goes: Hi. It goes: What have you been up to. And: Yeah, the weather has been so hot. And: Are you outside I hear wind blowing into the phone. It is cold here in the hot white light, I put on my hood. Oh did I tell you. I just got a good job lying on top of car hoods. [LAUGH TRACK] All kinds of cars and other motor vehicles. Then my last message for the ages becomes gesture. I gesture toward the sleek curves of the motor vehicles, their powerful engines, their stylish interiors. I gesture toward my ugly leather face. I gesture toward the heat rising off the engine block, the exhaust. I gesture toward my love for everything. I gesture toward the hot white light that comes to destroy me: the hot white light of my love.

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THE WAVE POOL

A wind bleaches the coast. Walls collapse; all rooms lack continuity. Hand me a baby, I put the baby in a toaster. Where did the baby go. [Laugh Track] I scream at everyone, I die at everyone. Love, love, love. Out of me, everyone screams, dies, loves. This is a still-life photograph of my death. We are executing a live performance. When the wave generator begins to turn, waves swell and humans ride on the surface. From the troughs and crests, the humans wave at me and I wave back. I pluck humans out of the wave pool. I pull humans out of the slosh and lay their bodies on the astroturf beach. Each human is scraped and bleeding from a different place; they all have bled into the wave pool. I line them up in rows on the astroturf. Rows and rows of scraped humans pulled from the wave pool. Each piece of this scene is part of the color scheme. The green of the astroturf. The white of the bathing suits. The red of the bloody waves. The humans begin to bake in the sun, and they laugh. They laugh, then they stop laughing. I am against personal expression.

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SLIDE WAVE

I am against personal expression. Against the tide of I that bleaches the beach. Every whiteness is excessive. The concrete sandspace at the wave pool burns my feet. The astroturf burns my feet. My feet blister white; I walk upon rows and rows of people on my way to the big slide. Their stretched out bodies point the way. I leave the bodies behind and climb the stairs to the top. The slide is over fifty feet tall. The slide grows larger by the minute. The stairs are covered with dead animals, so many of them. From the top I look out over the wave pool beach. The people lie still in their rows. They bake in the hot white light, they bake in the reflective green light from the astroturf, they bake in the light of my love for them, their bodies redden. The wave generator has stopped. The water is calm now. Everyone is at peace. A white wind blows through my hair. A trickle of water slicks the slide. I am ready to send me into a warm shallow pool. I want to be stupid and shallow. I am ready for my wave to cut across the water. I perch at the top of the slide and run my hand through my hair. I am a free spirit. I do what I want. I go my own way. I load myself into the tube.

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