Head In a Box

I find that if I cut a lens-size hole in a cardboard box then place that box over my head at night, the stars form new constellations; strangely, they can jump time and space to shine within my eyes. I find that when I peer through that eye-hole cut in the box, that both good and evil seem to live together, coupled by the closeness of their separation. In the box, I find myself to be almost happy for you. Love and hate fade in and out, upon your features as your face glows darkly angelic. I find that if I see a dead raccoon on the road I think of the Jewish prayer for the dead, maybe it’s the pajamas they wear, they only wear half-pajamas, but then I am only half-Jewish. Most concentration camps are left open. You never can tell which abandoned blood-stained factory once was a death-camp or perhaps will be again. I find myself (when head in a box), to be the ghost of everyone I have ever seen from a distance; close-up the box hides everything. The carboard box has the power to see scenes of ecstasy and horror as one moment repeating itself over and over aging, and the peephole is always too small to tell the difference.