In the pandora's box of a movie called Home, the living room is in the parking lot. The bathtub is the outdoor pool. The highway, adjacent, is the highway, next to the very real Isabelle Huppert. There is a great deal of laundry. Light day. Dark day. Hots and colds. Senior touches the taps. She2 is lounging in a bikini, her white body thrown up into the sun like a flag of surrender beside the men in trucks on the lawn. Smog in the grass. Fiberglass insulation. Senior smokes Reds by the carton and so does She3. The bathtub is the bed. The window for ventilation. The cinder bricks. She1 counts cars at the same time each day. Senior walks toward a horizon line at the same time he walks from it. The brown lettuce heads under the fluorescents. The survival crouch. The fetal position. The cuddle puddle. A foxhole to a freeway. Nothing nuclear about it. Junior sleeps in the bathtub filled with pillows. Summertime Saturnism. Pig pile in the playpen. An ankle in an ear. An elbow in the eye. Licked earplugs. The walls next to a neon traffic cone in the middle of a field. Look both ways. Who does She3 think She2 is? A red car at 7:22 at 120 km/hr is the first to pass, twice. Cinematic geographies. Tupperware lunchmeats. Underwear outerwear. 35 degrees Celsius. Sweat and a scuba dive in dirty bathwater. Senior sits recumbent on the freezer chest like a Marlboro Man playing air guitar. Rubber nipples. Pink gloves. And how should we whisper? Loudly. The vehicle for family. Highway bike path. Service trucks of hardhats. The car wreck called nostalgia. A violence we recognize. Home, and its isotopes, stable or unstable.
In the pandora's box of a movie called Home, the living room is in the parking lot. The bathtub is the outdoor pool. The highway, adjacent, is the highway, next to the very real Isabelle Huppert. There is a great deal of laundry. Light day. Dark day. Hots and colds. Senior touches the taps. She2 is lounging in a bikini, her white body thrown up into the sun like a flag of surrender beside the men in trucks on the lawn. Smog in the grass. Fiberglass insulation. Senior smokes Reds by the carton and so does She3. The bathtub is the bed. The window for ventilation. The cinder bricks. She1 counts cars at the same time each day. Senior walks toward a horizon line at the same time he walks from it. The brown lettuce heads under the fluorescents. The survival crouch. The fetal position. The cuddle puddle. A foxhole to a freeway. Nothing nuclear about it. Junior sleeps in the bathtub filled with pillows. Summertime Saturnism. Pig pile in the playpen. An ankle in an ear. An elbow in the eye. Licked earplugs. The walls next to a neon traffic cone in the middle of a field. Look both ways. Who does She3 think She2 is? A red car at 7:22 at 120 km/hr is the first to pass, twice. Cinematic geographies. Tupperware lunchmeats. Underwear outerwear. 35 degrees Celsius. Sweat and a scuba dive in dirty bathwater. Senior sits recumbent on the freezer chest like a Marlboro Man playing air guitar. Rubber nipples. Pink gloves. And how should we whisper? Loudly. The vehicle for family. Highway bike path. Service trucks of hardhats. The car wreck called nostalgia. A violence we recognize. Home, and its isotopes, stable or unstable.