we like our cameras quiet, but it is a stalking lens. to illustrate, i’ve placed a child on a tripod. the child is taken away by a public works agent and the tripod gives birth to a smaller tripod with a cyborg obstetrician taking pictures. the film of the miracle developed into glass. i put a lampshade over the tripod and received undignified photographs of myself in the mail. when i pulled down the shades, a small glass tripod lept into the bushes. the pictures were kid-me in a sculpture garden of giant ants. i go back to the tripod looking for answers, to the camera that knows my dark days. i don’t know how you know me so well. the glass tripod is imagined, but still i whisper ‘come back little one.’ the cyborg doctors perform sonograms on the side walk, looking like lubed metal detectors sliding around over hundreds of buried throbbing tripods that will bloom into tulips. lift the lampshade from your head so the sunlight makes you shudder. the flash of you crosses the street, ‘come back little one.’ i set up two tripods. we sit on a tripod each, facing each other on the sidewalk among tulips. i’m taking 16 frames a second. you are taking 16 frames a second.

i don’t know how you know me so well.

framed together, we look ant like.

lean in please.



apr23 – brennan mcmullen

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