On the labels: cava, viscus, homunculi—the low Latin murmur of possibility.  Best guesses, projections, suggestions, really, for this collection of head-turners, for these vague shapes of duffle-flesh suspended in syrups. This human dreck care-kept in formalin. Windows on the world of what-can-come: the eyeless, the mouth-less, the one-eared or bud-legged.  Rudiments of design.  Bottle-bobbed and otherworldly.  Lined-up by the mester, the little mealsacks of the still-born. Conjoined twins flesh-bound at the belly. Or the philanthropic remains of a man and a woman in steak-like cross-sections pressed into the panels of a glass book. Mother.Flesh.Father.Form.

Later, down on Rush St., away from that Hadean landscape, away from the hubbub and din of the freak-fond, our faces take turns fracting behind tumblers of scotch.  By a quick trick of light, caught in glass ourselves.  De-proportioned and obversed.  For the moment, beyond semblance, beyond exactness—otherwised. Reminded how, in this world, we choose which shapes console.