The Lace-Maker
June 30, 1987. Beverly Beach, Ore.
The leather of the sole must be half-an-inch thick when in glass cupboards for leprous dolls which lace-like stumps probe.
"Right now!" Triangular lenses look belligerent 'neath black-belt eyebrows. He waves his hand: Five stub-ends.
The very inner circle of each stump has never healed, & was wont to discharge clear fluids, especially when his limbs mimed karate motions, kind of iridescent & glowing like stupid monkey heads strung on tree- leaves. This was ever so far away from a "do not drink the water" warning, on the 20th floor of a worn city building, a bit like a beacon against poor posture & conterminous with the museum. Dull mahogany cabinets, I bet you fellows haven't seen anything like that before. And just as his cataract-laden eyes winked with victory, a wax-plastic figure (based on that of a wooden dummy) showed a glittering smile.
J. Falk, R. Scott
A collaborative poem I wrote with Roman Scott, after a visit to the now-defunct Lacey's Doll Museum in Lincoln City, Oregon (we then traveled to the Newport area, where we created these works). My family also dropped by the place a number of times, stretching back to the early 70s.
A drawing by R.Scott and me; from the same day as the poem.
