Karl Paloucek (Piano, sewing machines, tinfoil, fan, electronic audio), Elastic, Chicago, 8/13/10

A telephone line lined with birds-- humming gristling rustling, the line swooped slightly down in the center: a libido. Flutter ruffled feathers as the wind adjusts its fingers-- him, the tension, hold my legs down or the birds will--one by one.

And they do, no matter what you use to bind me to the bed they orient, group-quiver, generating-recreating patterns then destroying them across the sky and houses, hold me down or I'll-- the dog barks, trees perk up, leaves slide along my line I tremble, too receptive this is classical orgasm in a trash can, beating fists against the old metal-betrothed lid-for-a-pillow, like I told you now no matter how you earnestly restrain me-- elevation, just the fact of flight has upside-downed my line, up-curved its swoop, tearing the lining of birds from the vintage skirting of desire, defying the gravity of gesture.