June 8, 2026Nothing more of lovethan to watch the bright beingsspurt across the screentheir elastic lives, their un-saddisasters, their obstinate glee.To press one’s face close to theirsuntil the curse and hurl upstairscackle and razzmatazzand synch with the beakof a duck. Oh, what luck, these creaturescome of storm, these avatars of formand color and unconsciousnessdying back to life with a laugh.Cuckoo wobble, tuba walk,boing boing and the whistling thribble.Closer and closer to the screenuntil even the credits meanjust this flickering inconsequence,this everlasting present tense.Let face with the rake be struck.Let the schmuck tumble downstairswith a happy clash of cymbals.Ring the king’s head in the dented pail.Let the lost child drop. Let gravity fail.This is drawn from “The Dance.”