Martha McCollough :: Valley of the Talking Dolls

think of something else, think of a large artificial head on a flatbed truck being driven across the uncanny valley by a cigar- chewing robot who talks out the side of his mouth: say, bub, truck’s not gonna make it; say, I only signed up for this run so’s ma could quit her job at the tattoo parlor the data mine the money laundry an now no payday, see, won’t be no spondulicks, and he’s right: the rubble’s so deep the road’s so steep the signs so unconvincing, yet the giant head smirks untroubled by dust cloud or upflung gravel, it’s a giant baby head that doesn’t know shit that’s why, and I’m thinking a very butch movie with dynamite and grinding gears and a pounding kettle-drum climax as all the battered chatty cathies all the inflatable girlfriends and their mechanical pet dogs surge up the glassy slope and over the lip of the real


Additional works by Martha McCollough also appear in print.