To Whom It May Concern:
Each year I recede further away from the road.
I watch each morning go by with suspicious eyes.
My pieces sit elevated by the roadside.
This assemblage has taken time.
Dear Sensible Architect,
A driving-through measures nothing.
The rest is just unfortunate overflow.
The day knows not from where you watch.
To sunder will alter the topography.
Forthright & Frank,
A: It is hard to sit with yourself. Focus at first is not understood.
B: Why is nothing like looking up?
A: Like an arc whose bend stretches on for highways?
B: It is hard to focus among machinery whose precision makes sense of human error and
A: I once thought I was a fatalist but then I discovered preemption.
B: Every week I have an affair with silence mostly, but also with things overheard.
A: What I really love is looking passive because then it is always a surprise when I crawl
out from behind my throat.
B: I remember feeling my back up against something once. It was inviting but not
detailed, demanding but empty. I have no use for a yellow room.
A: I find it appealing to count the number of things the light touches, but would prefer to
just remain in the light.
B: What then will be the purpose of exchange?
A: All I want to do is rub two corners of the map together and say that the world is
consistent on all ends.
B: My greatest lament is that the isles are the same in every supermarket I visit.
A: I want to believe that there is one source instead of several.
B: I want to move slowly without picking up my feet.