October 2016

Trespassage

Stephen Eric Berry & John Elkerr

trespassage-isolated-image

Trespassage by John Elkerr
10.5” x 14”
Ink on paper

Trespassage

the molemaze has no natural defenses against you, only drone gardeners on the raised ditches above. they uncoil plants like concertina wire over dead soil, perhaps to give the place the appearance of permanence. but you slip past them, down a pipe as they tend to a tangle. you pass turnabouts and cul-de-sacs twisting in cold arms of fire, a mosaic of places where you lived, people you have known. but when you turn around in the cacophony of a restaurant where you used to work, it becomes your grandmother’s kitchen, becomes the room where you lost your virginity , becomes the dark margin of a road that flattened to your steps all night. you spot an old girlfriend or boyfriend but he or she strays off into someone else, multiplies into a crowd and rushes past where they think you think you are. you wonder when some gendarme will appear and escort you out through the mouth of the thing, where pistons chug and crank to open and close a jaw bent on reliving a time when it ate and drank, when it called itself something. when you stop thinking, what will you call yourself?

Text by Stephen Eric Berry