from the many scattershot piles of junk, my father is able to make a two-headed shovel.  his laugh wants my mother to worry for no reason.  in the space between us, things die in pairs.  in motion, my father is adamant.  of the one camera hanging from his neck, he gives me the one that works.  he has me shoot him standing on a chair with his arms desperate to keep his hands.  he has me cut them off so our memory will later deceive our outside trappings and believe he changed a light bulb.  now it’s me laughing, the boy god, the hope.  hurry, america.  hurry, chuckles.  if the **** looks the same for three days, it becomes a ruin.