My Work.
Visiting a Farmhouse as Children
Our fears roam in the other part-of-house that seals breath behind a cold door. The angels of some dead wife string wisps of cotton candy to fringe the rag rug and leave sugar prints on the dresser. We feature them as who, how, and why that goes on beyond that door cut off from cob. While angels’ bony knives ply sprinkles to phantom air, quilts of butterflies cheer us, their eyes winking at fright. October Wood Some niche: rested in planks with its own electric fingers hovering light to become our hands, caressing a mahogany thigh and making death through elemental cuts and saws. Here in the mist jays strain among wooden feeders and lichen stains like palms wrestling with backbone and clavicle. We are so strong until the cardinal shares seeds with mate. Then, we have the tendency to take out a folded linen cloth and share it, wrapping each femur of petrified wood while bird tolls a dee, dee, dee. Is it true we bury some religious without a lid, the death face covered in tossed flowers, not wood? And we hold them well into night, feeling muscles, skeleton, and hair against our knees, rocking death away with sensational fingers and cushions of body bark. In Search of Meaning Wordsmiths and metaphorists forsake the salty boulevard that regional artists painted. They slip into negative space, on the margins of hibernating elms, where wild tangles of denuded berry bushes huddle them in private places. Except when purity forces them to speak from the gut of rubber soles, they wipe their hands across ancient fenders, and strip themselves of intention, allowing only opacity to explain. They are the ones who write us all into wrestle holds and hug us rigid until their meanings feel for ruddy tracks, their worshiping twisted up under each cathedral of trees. |