THEY SAY THAT the infant in his first transitions sees his arms and his legs as lies, in that unformed early perception of himself. He does not understand self, he sees only the glimpsed sections of his being as unconnected strange falsehoods. A man torn apart by a woman can feel just like an infant without speech: dematerialized arms, legs, eyes floating in woozy unfocused space. Only the infant doesn’t know how crazy it is. The infant is in a Paul Klee painting he’s making with pretty little feces. The man is a man saying, “I am in a Paul Klee painting, and I don’t know how to get out.”
Behold the arrival of the jugglers. They were juggling Andy’s body parts. He tapped a plastic bucket sitting on top of a woman’s head. “Ma’am, do I have skin? I think I might be burlap.”
She took the lo
