0.

Which primary flag 
flattens first? In the cooling
process of building back 
out of referential 
tatters, theoretically
I choose to cover some things 
over. Flipside, glue, adhere 
to handmade paper the train 
tracks, Mars sunset, swamp 
shore, all the shapely hues 
of arrival. The lush sensation 
dreams to snip landscapes 
out, avoid the rising 
scandal of percentages as if life 
depends upon determined 
ignorance. Lines on screens
snake up to where 
the sky cuts off. 

1.

To tear is to make 
a mess—unpolished 
or profane. Who would 
let show such jagged edges, 
modpodge marks, smudged 
charcoal; why let 
the human in, inculcate flaw
instead of money? Heads 
of state discuss in place of 
action. Each stagnancy a paper 
dagger I rip out of a magazine. 
Whose illusion of proof matters 
most? Whose repetition, 
contrition, invasion, suspicion sears 
itself into the pulp? Hands decide—
background black, melancholic. 
Mixing palimpsest, shadow, 
mirroring the volume of denial. 
Who has permission to cross-hatch 
a crude surface. Who gives it. 

2. 

Dear pseudo monochrome, I locate 
a mind-practice in your quasi-maps
of language, washed gray-white
impasto escape attempt from 
questions as expression 
against my open will: three 
cheers for every bruised 
constructor’s problem: objects 
& their transformations ordering
the brush’s rough irreverence:
green mud, white crusts, elementary 
yellow & blue gridded to utter 
what counts, fails: builds in failure. 

3.

Regrets for as long as we’ve been losing 
our brothers. Plexiglas proves 
inadequate, false vision attached. 
The wet, wet fingerprint whipped 
out of shape & into slick arrays. 
Whose fantasy is this? Whose 
stuccoed textures mock 
wind’s facts? The white flag 
holds no surrender. 

4.

To resist death, I search each 
evening in a poem for the mesh 
overshot, the overlapping lines 
mapped by the dim
lens of oblivion captured on 
gessoed surfaces that last, 
of course, much longer than flesh. 
Strings skip, catch language,
catch metallic relief. 
Palette of clues less titillation, more 
shattered monolith. 

5.

Arrow-stamped, the composition gives 
as if to charity faded patterns 
we casually recognize as targets & 
watch official forces of sight take aim.

6.

Resources join the first 
traditional impulse to 
fold. Invert—beautifully 
neglect to invite the 
parallel, cut, screen-push &
numbers-up stone 
matrix of understanding 
as understanding & lay it 
face-down. This late I 
can’t resist uncategorizable 
directness as leftovers. 
The work of proofs: 
not enough of us 
pay attention to those 
who really know how to live. 

7. 

Reusing marks, arrangements occur. 
Seasons layer over our painstaking 
lives, encaustic. What we consume 
scrapes its way in, harsh visual
impersonation of comfort. Even small 
grace, however, has vast potential. Let’s eat 
the complex play of destruction.

8.

Satisfaction doesn’t exist 
unless we embrace the hidden 
beginnings. Starting over as praxis. 
Completion as the way to disappoint 
the too-earnest weaver who wept best, 
kept every secret tucked in color 
beneath insistent decay. Never mind 
circumstance-forced devotion, dear 
sequence—I shape to you.

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