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Sunday is Spent Laughing

A project by David Colosi, 1990
Installation title: Apocalypse Scene and Seen
Text title: Sunday is Spent Laughing
Photo credits: Dale Ruffolo and David Colosi




Six spent saints stick to debris soaked from cat licks, part of the masses busy making passes (much better than paying attention, more productive and instructive), while the seventh stands in front – a wooden beam towering over, a cross about to tumble over. sunday1

It’s hell bent and lip sent and traceably familiar, the possibility of these seven being together scoring their boredom of the Lord.  Fasting motives make actions showbiz, but the audience is snoring because syndicated reruns are boring.  Morals soar high with the letters H-E-A-V-E-N etched in the sky.  Disasters grow faster from the irrelevance of their establishment.

The seven of them, in relation to their creation, reference the uselessness of their use connected to the belatedness of Revelations, in which, therein, the host presents the evidence of the end of the world by scaring studiers into reading into their lives the symbols of intimidation which would somehow lead to this end.  When, in actuality, the symbols are recognizable in any facet and would have remained placid if not for the interruption of corruption that reverses readings to the pleadings of some other structure supposed to hold together the incomprehensibles of this parched existence, which, in turn, cause latent resistance by setting these precedents.  Incomprehensible ununderstandables are accidental and remain unfathomable, and if not, who needs cute plotsunday2s?

On that day in May they swallow whole the Immaculate Digestion:  In from the window there arouse such a clatter, the Angel Gargamel came through with the shatter, spattering songs of babies from a God fuck, priests and kings, just our luck, to muck it all up with stories and such that people believe because they’re afraid when they leave they’ll burn with cardigan sleeves. And a tree of knowledge can’t spell itself out of this mysterious story line. The whorish spines can’t bathe, and they’ll be blamed for what they gave, unafraid to follow their desires until they expire, and not want to ask forgiveness because it’s meaningless and personal bliss. And trail mix in a path from one friend to the next sucked up by a tracking black man holding canes and traps with messages of reversals and retracking to make lost sheep for the fleesunday3t seated in Plasticine so mold won’t grow. But cheese in a fridge, tucked in the back of the tray, stays so long – no songs of jaws – that green fuzz bubbles and shudders until it’s all eaten away.  It takes forever, and the strength comes from the slow drilling and no spilling. 

It’s thrilling the ability for stability in holding cat necks by frozen wrists and spitting at hypocritical Catholics with extinct beliefs and old chefs and blind leaders who convince them they have sight. But it’s night, and they trust the leaders are right.  It’s trite the beliefs they’ve conceived they believe, and it’s so out of fashion to believe in anything, but it’s fashion and, “Who is Beth with,” and “Oh my god these are beautiful decorations.” 

As for the relations, tell them we hate them for training us in the game then. It’s their dead puppy, and it’s sloppy and smelly, and we’ve been trying to bury it while they’ve remained married to it. And it’s leaving, but there’s some sort of maturity that’s threatened by security and logical seal-your-face reality.  The spine needs to be cut, and Kevin has this cleaver high above his head, and he’s hacking away at it, and it’s not even bleeding because it’s separate from him.  The knife is bouncing off and ricocheting behind his neck and bonking his mother on the head. But that’s her problem.  He’s only trying to say something like “Judge everything on its own terms. Decisions based on existing decisions that are completely extinct and don’t have relevance next to coiled barbed wire deserve a quick hidden burial so most are left asking, ‘Do you remember when?’, ‘Whatever happened to that?’, and ‘Oh, how foolish and silly they were those past generations.’”

So Surrogate Mother Earth sits in the corner wasted on critical books from library top shelvesand neighborhood recycling bins of plastic coatings and tacky sunday4wrapper Tic-Tac sticker scraps and snack foods blue goo from artificial snowbalsunday6l chews.  Motrin for her pain away, the whole bottle for her humiliation and rejectionfrom a culture of dislocation.  Capitalism breast-feeds imperialism.  Bit nipples makebloodstains on new wardrobes.  Wife, non-mother, mother of a new child, could have had a used child.  Surrogate births with hers and his splendor she sunday6squanders on laundered laugh-track trips and wife has genetic psychological anxiety flips holding morals high on clouds serving a God shroud.  But even though God is dead, they still squeeze and eat its corpse like keeping empty fire extinguishers or broken TV sets that spit blank screens of unseens.  They keep them around, museums abound. Then Surrogate Mother Earth becomes a stronger breed taking more drugs on her sleeve.  Not pleading for the old, Surrogate Mother Earth is bold. We just love her for her changes. And a plastic earth isn’t dangerous, it's just the result of a somersault of industrial bliss with more money in traveler’s checks and changing business trips with economy twists and bits motor cars spit around star topped jars, and freeway bars, and cultural disillusion of baseball players with financial contusions.

Building cardboard forts for aborted babies with forks, stuck in the wall bleeding and teething, completely avoiding hospital sheeting, they prevent their morals and traditions from leaving.  Later death brings baited breath to back room storefront window displays giving away the baby as pay.  From the products they’ll profit and never stop it.  For a day they’ll stay counting liquor sticks and malts whips and leather slips for prices they can afford while new ones are on the way: “Baby, we’ll pay today, today.  How long will the prices stay?”

sunday7The same time a week ago a hole in the dirt did show a glow of phosphorescent child luminescence, quite reminiscent of big old ditches with what they called “whores, niggers, and witches” – catastrophic superstitions.  They’ve just adjusted their position.  It’s the cause of fruition and commonsensical malnutrition and pediatricians with deaf ambitions, and suddenly we see the coagulation of their frustration from things not changing and forests not rearranging.  They disguise themselves by adjusting staging. 

On the shelves, the books by the looks seem to be the same no matter how they’re rearranged.  It comes down to hiding from what’s inside by biding time and blinding by intertwining a self-justification of, “Me and my family first. Then if there’s time, I’ll join an organization whose beliefs are my obligation because of my affiliation, and I’ll hold them up and make them stronger, last longer, without examining my true feelings.”  Ideology stealing.  Donate to a miscellaneous charity with a scarcity of assistance driven by a built-in doubt and unwillingness with resistance like, “They won’t send the money, and they’ll keep it for taxes and rape our relaxants.  My family first, my family first, my family first, my family first, my family first.”

Pathetic fence building and mutilation by frightened negligence, and fear is the mother of violence. But six cents it costs to find out there’s nothing to fear but “I can’t afford it because my family needs to ignore it," and “we’ll kill you because you’re not like us, but we believe in trust.”  Hypocrisy and culturally inflicted dyslexia – panacea of the trained militia.

sunday9Prison with pillows and newspaper bars, electric door locks and exotic pet jars, packaged to keep you inside and padded where it’s safe and the unsafe on paper.  Puff up your fall-out shelter.  Have everything in arm’s reach except the satisfaction of your sexual desires. "Objects are my fulfillment.”  Blocked senses with decorations and beautiful historical music. "I will seek love but never fulfill it.  Love is only a quest, not a discovery”.  TV tales, romance novel failures.  Illustrating uselessness, celebrating thoughtlessness, masturbating is sinful bliss. Castration by threat of damnation.

In a crowded foyer with gun cabinets stuffed with miniatures, Christ hangs on the wall, a pin through his forehead, begging on bended knees four feet from the ground.  Crucifix runway for household hold-sway. Icon firebomb, wall-hanging fear banging. Seventh member of the family, greet him on the wall daily. Intruder in the house, family unsuspecting the louse. All questions and decisions made with consultation. Massive figure, passivity delivered. UPS man can’t get passed wood splinters. Household burden of absurd learning, shrine of dead, blindly misread, given more broccoli when is passed well-fed.  

The car radio hollers, “Christ is crying outside your front door, don’t let him in cause he’ll get blood on the floor.”  Pop music preacher, burned out creature.  Teacher with a nosebleed blames city kids with drug sleeves.  More money for the pot, government is doing the shots.  Aids paranoia, heroin will destroy ya’.  Politician Tweed wears HIV-free pins and kills twins of an infected mother to make her suffer for her sins.  Kick his shins, break his chin, paint a picture of him with his cock slipping out the fly, but a kick in the shin and people still die.

sunday10In a caravan hotel with razors they sell and blood on the blade from the whore that shaved her pubic hair for the pay she made the sunday11night before, and the razor still on the floor, and the male maid who licked it because he couldn’t afford it and was too shy to sly it, so he rubbed it on his dick and bled on the Bic and, gritting his teeth, feeling the pleasure of his own release, he puts the hollow end to the hole in his prick and fills it up with the potion of sin and lifts it to his mouth and blows in the end to make whistle sounds like on the commercials, but it only bubbles, and he gets paid to clean the sheets and make the beds and scrub the toilet.

And the next night, the one we’re talking about, Bill Robinson, the business executive for Lumar Inc. who sells Ethofoam door-to-door, finds the razor on the floor, seeing he doesn’t have anymore, washes it in the sink and uses it on his face to scrape off the lumps of unacceptable extra hair stumps and cuts his chin and under his nose for the client he’d blow, only to show, he takes his work seriously and that he needs the money because his son needs a Mercedes and his wife wants the VCR so she can punch the buttons to treat hersunday12 fancy while she sticks her finger in her panties and bites her tongue for Richard Gere, whose baby she’d have any year. And his car makes a click sound, and the neighbors heard it and looked around, and his wallet is plenty full, and the bank account, and he’s going to fix it, really, as soon as he gets home, so that’s why he has his shirt off and both arms embracing Dick, the client who can send him home sooner.

sunday13And the client isn’t pleased because Bill is not quite on his knees, and he isn’t showing conviction in his licking or being all together sincere in his worshipping.  So he zips his head up in his fly and blood and hickeys form on the neck. And the client takes half the deal but wants to work through another executive. And Bill gets home to his wife and says he did it for her as she inspects the marks on his neck. But she’s crying and packing and leaves the next day and says she’s going six hundred miles but moves in next door with Kyle and is in bed riding and sighing, “Tell me it’s not me who caused this to be?” hiding behind sunday15his sympathy. The sound of car clicking comes from Kyle’s window that’s sticking as Bill deli-drives for a pickle-loaf sandwich and coleslaw side. 

Saturday the Robinsons' boy Kevin died.  He was brutally murdered by sunday19a record album. "He was a quiet boy,” friends said. "He wouldn’t hurt a flea.”  Pee Pee Lee Lee See See what He He did.  He’s dead dead dead, yeah yeah dead.  He’s so so dead, and a record album didn’t kill him.  Kevin wore dad's coat because he thought sunday20he’d show how lovingly familiar he was with his father’s ambitions and forced traditions.  So in a gesture of satiric respect he became a navy man and wore the arms brandishing his hands. And with organization he created mutation into a chaotic mess of disrupted family bliss. And the family was pissed because they didn’t cause this. It was all that devil-worship, Satan-bullshit, drug-snorting, piss-in-public, rock-n-roll music. 

"And I take the coat as a sign that he loved me deeply and as an apology for his death to me.  I wish I could talk to him now and hold him.”

But he killed you father in the form of his other.  He killed himself as the product of what he felt you would have made him. Shrouded he died never having the chance to reveal his true pride. Dead at age thirteen never allowed to tear his shroud.

sunday17Rock-n-Roll players, unjustified slayers. He collected Rolling Stones and built barriers. The Wall goes louder and louder and higher and higher. And mom and dad don’t understand sunday18 it’s just loud noisy shit, so they blame his mood swings on drugs and his puberty and maturity they reject as absurdity and immoral lack of responsibility. Then they become the enforcers and wear badges sunday14and shields for the sake of parental responsibility and how they’ll look in front of the neighbors.  So they turn to discipline and ignore the kid who reads their illogic and sees the pathetic building they’re trying to defend and how floppy and flimsy it is, and it mostly makes him realize that there’s no way he’s going to follow the same taped-together palm tree sticks.

sunday16Their discipline to make him a disciple in their lack of training and illogical traditional framing by furnishing shoves in the way of his learning because parents feel responsible for creating and children feel obligated to negating. And it’s the flopping and position swapping they play, but the parents can’t take it because they hate it and have to sunday21hold the crow bar to smack the kids as they start. And it’s a lot about how they’ll be seen as unfit parents and how psychology will come into it and point to the causes in the family and the gossip of backyard-barbeque pool-party-clam-bake-death and so many neighbors with smoking gun breath.  They know because they’ve breathed fire.

Bucktooth housewife sloth, watch TV while you make broth.  Clothes hanging on armchair cushions, sunday22button pushing and seasonal brushing. Channels damage, news station hemorrhage: “Weather’s nasty, best stay in tonight, cuddle by the fire, tell stories of what you admire.” Order-out pizza story, twenty-four hour video glory, rewind cranial twine, commercials make chip and dip time. Tired of work, routine flirt, monotony of pattern, beanbag cushion lingers, more padding and comfort cladding. Brain food, drained goo, pictures on the wall of children’s school. Homemade wall craft, identical to witchcraft. Mom crochet, Kevin paint display. Refrigerator star, magnetic pat-on-the-back scar. Praise for good work, grounded for school skirt.

sunday23Celebrate one while the other sits alone:  Margery mixes makeup and cyanide to rub it on her eye line.  In the mirror the reflection is the realer of eyebrow black dust and pink cheek rub lust, hair curl, whisker pull, zit cream, that’s a girl. (But boyhood grown-up mousses masks just as much). Pressure never lesser to use the whole dresser with fashion clothing and glow in the dark trophies, and to hide from mom and piss off dad, and to show her true self to the lads.  But who is to pick the truth from the fake and to realize the fantasies of revelation or disguisization, to soothsay, “That, right there, that’s the truth, her real self, what she wants to express”?  It’s more about psychology and family dynamics and hiding what will cause panic, withholding information for self-preservation.  They all do it and pretend they’re honest and truest.

And the parents pray to the lord for their daughter and son so he’ll deliver them from the temptation of sin.  But the kids don’t want to participate in the production of ill faith, so one thing they hide is their disgust with the shrine and just follow suit, in suits, because of discipline’s harsh switch to make sure they can go out after.  And if they slack off and don’t pretend to match their parents' intention they’ll be reprimanded and incarcerated, and there’s no reason to take it when you know how to escape it by wearing a tie and kneeling on time and reciting a few lines. 

sunday24So Margery makes up and dresses plush to try to cover her disgust. And then she behaves wearing her knee-highs and lavender skirt shades, a white fluffy blouse to show purity for a future spouse, and little black buckle shoes that daddy got her new as the Easter Bunny does, “Honey.”  Sucking up.  So she eats her communion and kneels in her pew then with bowed head and rosary thread and wiggles her lips with shut eyelids closed in intensity that mom and dad see but actually, wrapped in confusion of “What am I doing?” and, “Well since I’m here, what do I say?  My parents wanted me to meet you because they think I need you, but it’s them that want you, and I don’t want the haunting.  So if you’ve got this power that they constantly shower, then get me out of this and tell them it’s there own bliss and that I want sunday25none of it.”  Wasting time with motions toward their sublime. "Do it on your own time, could I please do what I do with mine?” 

When they leave church everything’s peachy, she didn’t forget the holy water squirts.  So mom and dad sit in the front seat and Margery and Kevin in the back wearing costume jackets worn out from acting and memorizing, and they got through another week.  In the back seat thinking of what to do after they eat, and, might as well milk it, “Dad, can we get pancakes and sausage?”

“Why sure.  Your behavior was swell, I couldn’t even tell. You kids deserve it, I tell you, you’ll learn it.”  With kidnapped offspring police can’t do a thing, can’t get involved in family matters.  At home, costume stripping only in front of mirror sitting,  mom and dad wear discipline suits and big time instructor boots – elevation domination. 

sunday27No self-made action, only distraction. Neighbors, God, and government decisions. Listen to TV judge’s rendition. Decisions based on status quo interrupted by steaks at thirty-nine cents a pound.  Cost of living haunting, kicked off the block for a rock through the window, unfortunate innuendo, destroys family, low esteem, house upkeep lean, the neighbors have seen.  Porsche with a dent wears a tag that says, “Vehicle must be repaired before further use.”

So if you ask about the family's remains, they’ve left stains of rust, and chaotic crust, and disrupted lust of lack of trust, and broken cones of too-late-to-foreshadow homes, and ancient attics of worn-out adages, and badges of metal sunday28 – loss of all that’s special – and shattered cobweb spirals and birth canal retrievals, and haunted trucks from grandparents broken cranes, tires lame, flattened by frozen storage and lack of usage, old and rotting verbiage and respoken tutelage.  Homemade grass grown takes too long to fast alone.

Outside the house there’s a front door screaming, singing songs of people seeing. Oak forearms ripping veils off years of sealing reveal THE END on millions of marching soap-box sandwich-board people and children throwing God sticks in disposal bins because they’re hazardous to the environment. Kitten purr and taxi honk.  Sunday is spent laughing.  God’s voice in the sky found amplified by some mass electrician gadget tinker thinker wizard:  Oz man-made mirage, the plug lacerated under the outlet, carcass discovered.  Apocalypse scene and seen lying underneath broken bottle necks, still squishy cattle tracks left, and a pulse from stripped twenty-one-century-old blind folds, wriggling and spinning light-blinded moles, not reborn, just finally been freed to get back home.


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