Identity Mistaken


Did you ever wonder
about all this stuff
you see around you,
that surrounds you
like a warm blanket— 
is it all supposed to be?

Or are we
merely
meant to be:
back in the caves,
out on the plains,
in the primordial swamps— 

and something just got outta hand.





Pinpoint


To see art
as relevant
to a point in time,
and then to see
all art
as a continuum
of points in time,
making up
the mosaic
of a solid line
of space-time— 
and our relation
to it— 
that's the essence
of art.

It's what keeps
art (and us)
fresh in the now
and not stuck
on a pinpoint
somewhere;
like a bug
that ventured out
a little too far?

No.
More like
a bug
that didn't
venture out
far enough.





Retreat


10 o'clock AM.

The motel
made maidless
by a
sufficient lack
of occupancy.

My sole
presence here
apparently
not enough
to overcome
their absence.

From the
threshold
of my
second floor
honeycomb
in this
empty
beehive,
I overlook
the once then
(when?)
not now
remains
of a former
restaurant
sleepily
staring back
at me
blankly;
through eyes
now
perpetually
wood matted,
boarded up,
abandoned.





Any Way


In the space
between
yes and no— 
maybe?

Maybe so. But
then again,
maybe not.

So, what?

Maybe, or gray?
Or something other— 
hard to say.
Try as we might,

ambiguity—