The process, not the product, is the thing.

The cities on the map are merely dot

The space between the dots must be enjoyed.
The process, not the product--everything.

I've trained my eyes to see the ways we talk.

Now I detect distracted glances aimed
at phones and watches; validation's lack
creating vacuums for attention. Speak.

ces between stitched and scribbled (or sown and scrawled) lines sit amidst splas
ainted splatter to say something about the present sensation.

empty canvas conceals and emphasizes the atypical subject matter;

ts over people, iPhone over DSL, pleasure over pressure.

emory of her mother, wood-burned images of hand-drawn photographs feel

nished until physically understood.

Is the importance in the clarity or the

ability of vision?
I don't know if my eyes are clear or if
my glasses are broken because it
looks like a glacier rendezvousing
with a cliff, a hill sloping into a
waterfall, but I think I know that
back--that little valley of your spine,
that small constellation of moles
beneath the shadow of your
shoulder's plateau, even the bolts of
bone in your neck are familiar--I've
stared at it enough times.

Have you ever seen the vases and

urns chipped, littered with
imperfections? Their cracks and gaps
and missing pieces are filled with
gold. People gaze at them, place
them on display because they are
beautiful, and this because they are
broken.

nature burned to a square

of wood with tear stains
grieved by memories of mom.

Fifteen minutes. I can't see. Breathe a

tired breath. Arms outstretched. Make
a thing. Go to bed.

A tree becomes a man; an oceanic

wave becomes a woman; and a white
cloud filled with fresh, to-be rain
becomes a child--but these people
are not like beasts with already
assigned meaning. They are not Kings
of the Jungle. They are not Queens of
the Hive. Their meaning is a
landscape daily bothered by its
master, an eager volcano repeatedly
spewing a phoenix.

Take your 3-D sphere and drown it in

a 2-D square, but first remove all
evolved apes to keep the square's
Antarctic waters clear. Take not the
favored tip of Mount Everest, nor any
other part of its outside. Dissect this
Tower of Babble that is just a pebble
in the universe, and remember its
beating, crying heart. Listen to the
heart's beat--budum-dum-dum--and
hear its unsung lyrics, as it thunders
quietly like lightning, "Take these
beasts among beasts and their
shadows away from me."

Backward people painted over

thoughts therapeutically released
onto paper.
A word given up to individual
interpretation made image, with tools
unfamiliar and blunt.

She realized that people weren't as

perfect as she had hoped, and that
digitalization didn't make much of a
difference.
His work is laid before him, lapsed in
the movements of the stars.
Extrapolating beauty from rejects,
taking new forms.

Running on cement, collecting trash,

losing time
Hastily describing the images with
paint, graphite, and watercolor.

She tended the garden and held each

flower with care, the noise of passersby obsolete.
The black paint was splattered on the
cardstock asking what you saw in its
seemingly random pattern.
He hoped the disassembled pieces
before him would reveal more about
the product they produced.

She checks email in bed, her face

obscure by a baby.
The 84 Civic parked outside Paradise
Palms Apartments holds piles of
Marys pictures, and strapped to the
roof a coin-operated Dalecarlian
horse rests on a hydraulic pedestal,
bible verses written on it in blue
livestock tag.

What happened on Tuesday became a

part of your postcard,
a conglomeration of will I / won't I,
the overheard and overlooked of the
week.
Your archives celebrate the
impermanence of Friday
in ink.