Cara Benedetto, Cara Benedetto: Man shows sketch of Woman to woman (2015)

Man:  Do you like it?


Woman:  I like it. Goodnight.


-Excerpt from Sticky Stage (a rehearsal what for…), Discoteca Flaming Star, 2014





She moved through the door

He moved under the door

Again she moved thru


What is a read-thru? A photograph is a doorway.

What is a drive by? A shutter is an eyelash.




The servant didn’t know what hit him. Abuse at it’s best.

She knew she could count on past aggressions, cursory eye movements, unfinished kinks,


Yelling to stop her hand from reading, excess.

She laid down at a table when they left and placed a palm on his own throat neck.

She was dry like a bar room clam. She picked up where the last collaborator left:

Overcharged under-memory.


They dreamt of touching her ass. She touched his ass instead. Her papers read

No more propaganda. She needed a whisper to settle. She found


in a

wooded microphone.


Her top half raised fallen rents. His bottom stabilized water

Hot. She looked grill-side. He wept in a corner. She begged the man to meet her later, the one with a blue daughter.


She laid down again and waited for the rolls to fall out of the bag. The bell continued and eventually the other man showed, stage dark left.


The woman looked down, dirty apron, watched her finger herself, sticky fungus. The lights went up, starched and the women collided, in brightness unfettered.


How can we read-thru? She muffled a quiet minded complaint. It was telepathy that held them at bay.

We can hold eachother by the insides. Touch me like you touch yourself.


How, she asked.

How he asks.

Faster they said.


As they lay and contemplate the news read through artifacts destroying.

We always use our dumb lens to define, the heat that is past.

The Women remarked that the time was inescapable with a The.

That the mark re, and reread it’s stain.

Again and again.

The teachers talked in vein.


The liquid crusty. Skin bare. A sticky stage. A very sticky stage.