Studio At Night,David Carmack Lewis
The noise of the room is amputated by the scissor effect of images descending the room’s horizon. Couched in the corner, solo artist, a pregnant Xerox machine. Its eyes flash & zigzag across the bare room, scanning, but really, automatically xeroxing feelings and emotions before escaping the exit lane of the 98-story edifice. When bored, at volt speed & volt passion, the copier xeroxes sound, images, & black humor. At this state of mind, the copier is unstoppable. White pages leap off the machine – in a terror of black lines, black fluids, black strokes, black scattered rhythms, black dots, black scripts bleeding out of the midsection of the copier’s midriff. The air asks, Where is the midwife? Who assists in delivering flat white babies. After awhile, after pumping her fist in the air, the copier’s belly flops. Paper and ink compartments pop out like bubble gum. Even her VCR-shaped breasts pop out. The copier is tired of copying children. Offspring she knows only in one xerographic blink. The air then shifts. With a gentle push of a mechanical stutter, alabaster children are blown onto the edge of the edifice’s windowsill. The pregnant copier watches as children float out of the window, suspended briefly, on the 87th floor. Plugged to horizon of the room by an omnipresent umbilical cord, the copier heaves on & off, rolling her four toes back and forth hoping to catch the children before they fall and before exhaling from her black emphysemic lungs one single electrocardiographic strand that demarcates the beginning of sound & ending of image.