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Tesselrod cloud attempts to escape
the land of borrowed imagination
and ride into a universe of his own making

David Colosi, 2009

(included in the exhibition
Cueto Project NYC Oct. 27, 2009-Jan. 30, 2010)

David Colosi - Tesselrod Cloud, 2009



Tesselrod Cloud rode his horse
over hill and dale,
over trestle and shale,
over the prehistoric lands
of T-Rexes and Brachytrachelopans.
He flew over the isles of the Lamia
and the sandy deserts of Mauritania
and befriended the people of Fritzclan-tikitiki-land
In the forests of Poopsiclacl
he discovered the great Bontinantinacl tree,
Furzkizazzle mouse and the BizzBuzzle Bee.
Diving to the depths of the ocean
he and his seahorse explored the commotion
of the Biddlewhack Squid
discharging its inky biddlelaquid,
and played checkers with the Jagglejellyfish
who cheated with his electrozapperwhip.
Riding into distant galaxies
he found he could breath with ease
and to increase his speed he could sneeze
to navigate the fields of asteroid cheese
that his horse was pleased to eat in chunks
along with miscellaneous bits of space junk
in order to keep the pace
while he fought off an alien race
and made peace with the King of “Whoa-Gitouttamyface.”

An adult enters.
The bed breaks.
The train derails.
Time stops.

The adult punishes the child for playing too hard
but fails to ask the difficult question
of what exactly he or she has broken by entering.

“I don’t belong here!” cries young Tesselrod Cloud.

“Easy, love, there’s a Safe Way Home.”
Thankful for his fine fair parents
Tess capitulates
(He’s six. He has no choice).

“Are you God, too?”

I lied about Santa Claus,
I lied about the Easter Bunny,
I lied about the Tooth Fairy,
but see, I admitted it.
So now when I say that God is real
you know I’m not lying
because you know that when I lie,
I’ll tell you so. Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy are not real.
They’re stories I told you to teach you important lessons.
But they’re for children.
Now that you’re older, you can handle the truth.
You’re old enough for the truth.
So here it is.
Mary had a baby without having sex,
Jesus died and came back to life
(so really he never died,
so don’t be sad for him, be happy)
that bread you eat on Sunday is his real flesh
and that wine is his real blood.
God, not Santa, is watching you now,
he knows when you’re naughty and nice;
if you’re good, you go to a beautiful place called Heaven,
otherwise you burn in the fires of hell for all of eternity,
but, remember, he loves you either way.”


The boy begins ageing rapidly,
and a lifetime of his parents fears and recipes surge through him
filling the clean slate of his mind,
like the once-held good intentions
of his walls of painted chalkboard panoramas
upon which he could have drawn his own Garden of Earthly dioramas.
But impatience with his abeyance
led to their more drastic approach
of framing him with borrowed examples,
that would effectively reproach
the creation of his own camels
riding on rose backs
fending off attacks from diapers
wiping smiles of silk
from guilty pleasures wearing kilts
of mustard and relish shirts.

Instead, chewing through their wimpy dreams
eating without a sound
he’s digesting religion by the pound.

Alone again in o-hello
he sees the evil nightlight glow.
He arms himself with his favorite toys,
Felix and Ross, imaginary boys
his parents will never understand,
lay beaded bodies on pillows of paper,
counting on blood sales to strike a balance between supply and demand.
The monsters on the sheets
are super cute,
the question is not moot,
it’s a statement
of his attempt
to ride his magic carpet
over the parapet
of the solar system
where imagination is not a victim.
His flying bed is drawn by horsepower,
not reindeer or fairies.
His destination is
a pizza flying saucer
populated by accountants of pepperoni
and chemists of onions.
The summit will be held
in the inner crust
where the cheese mariners have congealed
and earned everybody’s trust.

The self-invented imaginary friends
that children use to extend
their companionship tends
to frighten parents to no ends.
So they murder the guest,
replacing it with Christ
or some other endorsed deity
they can parlay into morality
because religion is community
and one must build immunity
to free imaginative play,
so the child doesn’t stray
beyond their authority.

An omniscient, omnipresent friend
of a child’s invention,
is not so much a threat to his psycho-maturation,
as it is an indictment on that adult fraction of the population
who sacrificed their own inventions on the altar of integration.

The door creaks.
The train wheels squeak.
Monster in the box
the beast of orthodox
glows from the lid
urging the bed to halt,
but the assault is peppered by
leopards playing Jeopardy,
and the lid slams shut on the tongue of morality.

More powerful than the ultraest ultraman
combined with the superest superhero,
nothing multiplied by him could equal
the measure of his strength.
The brain of a child
can dream worlds
bigger than the gods
could ever inhabit.

The square root of -1
was a logical impossibility
until mathematicians displaying extraordinary abilities
discovered a way
to put it in play,
by finding practical use
for this otherwise obtuse
imaginary number.

In a similar display of creative acrobatics
with the same goal of practical pragmatics
humans invent stories
of imaginary deities
whom we willfully believe
perform their own inventive activities.
When we say, “God created the world in six days and rested on the seventh,”
why do we erase the part where God is the character that we inventeth?

In one story so great
of the American literature that we celebrate,
we know that the wizard of Oz
though a humbug and a fraud,
a scam and a sham,
turned out, in the end, to be a man.
So when we give so much praise to this lesson,
though his name is uncertain,
why with religion do we choose to forget
there is a man behind the curtain?

From these stories that we so convincingly tell,
we have forgotten the lessons we have practiced so well.
They have weakened our conviction
to realize that the only truth worth believing in is fiction.

We’re in the adolescence of the human race
clinging to God is a disgrace,
an insult to our creativity.
My first motivation is to stave off annihilation,
my second is to preserve the integrity of the imagination.

We are the weakling anti-hero,
and Religion is the dragon of conformity
that continues to slay
our play.
What’s that you say?
“What do I need an imagination for anyway?
Can’t I just have yours on layaway?”
Go the fuck away.

Max we’ve got your back.
Where the wild things were
is under attack.
There is no excuse
for child abuse,
when good intentions
are riddled with indoctrination.

This discovery that God is human-made
is not an event to be mourned for decades,
instead it is cause for celebration
of the infinite powers of the human imagination.
We the people, to form a more peaceful union,
Must abandon God as anything more than a fiction.

David Colosi - Square Root of The Great Pumpkin
David Colosi - Square Root of Tinkerbell
David Colosi - Square Root of Santa
David Colosi - Square Root of Jesus
David Colosi - Square Root of The Easter Bunny
David Colosi - Square Root of The Burning Bush
David Colosi - Square Root of The Tooth Fairy
David Colosi - Square Root of Muhammad
David Colosi - Square Root of -1
David Colosi - Square Root of The Wizard of Oz
David Colosi - Square Root of Ganesh
David Colosi - Square Root of Snuffleupagus
David Colosi - Square Root of Buddha
David Colosi - Square Root of Hobbes
David Colosi - Square Root of Poseidon
David Colosi - Square Root of God


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