by Matvei Yankelevich
Animals cut into parts, crawling, scurrying along the soil. You pick one up
and gesture for us to look closer. In your hand is an organism, you are an
organism. Compare these things.
What can come of this, for instance, if your arm is a prosthetic device?
Your beckoning gesture is a sign, mechanically reproduced, also a drawing
in the air, a calligraphy that reads as black on white, a tautology packed in
ice, a frozen repetition of ancestral digits.
You stick your arm in the toilet by means of a prosthetic brush.
You make it new then erase it. You make it new, then do it again.
Put your arm through your arm, hand through hand, up to the shoulder,
repeat with legs, struggle into a statement, making a loudspeaker out of
your head, which hovers uneasily as a geometric sun above abstract planes,
the crosses of propellers spinning, wings un‐crossed as a swimmer against
Where did you go? And where’s the window you left through?