poored

i'm poor, but i'm not dumps.

i continue to develop my ideas for these pieces i must somehow figure out how to build.  i talked about this with my friend "gold" at one point.  and just in that one talk i formed alot of structure for these otherwise ambiguous pieces.

through experience they (these pieces) have clobbed together into their own form of choice (it seem - it feels).  but they are currently beyond my skill to build as well as my wallet.
i've suffered a financial blow but my mind remains strongly on track.

in the meantime of repairing my broked wallet, i'm reading up on the various techniques it may take to build these pieces.  french carving styles, glass or plastic shaping resources and methods, mosaic tiling, lathe and plaster, wall papering, basic carpentry, etc.
additionally there is some historical methods and visual reference research i have to do.

the hardest part is the peripheral element.  i call it "peripheral" because it is an aspect of these pieces that they are familiar, "recognizable," but not upon close inspection.  not when you take that second look or get close.
"peripheral familiar" incidents is what i currently call these beasts.  "incident pillar"s are what i call their form.

my experiments continue.  sketches, research on real world occurrences of the "pf" factor; perhaps i should just call it the "pif" factor (composite shortening of peripheral incident familiar), experiments.

things are tough but i'm focusing on these expressions.  not just the pif, but all expression.

action packed.

three arms crossed awkwardly

‎"find me," it read.

waiting.

somewhere in the breaths of all air in the world with everything between the fingers; eyeless, foundless.

waiting.

a familiar skin much too silent on the cheek.

waiting.


for you.

bye product

i take pictures

so that maybe


i’ll time travel



and be able to answer the question i had




behind my back

ajar full of simple need

what should i say when you are amazingly entire

the words that would reach you
crush from their own wait

i am the social whisk,

you are the batter

without a boll

silver naïf

we need to see each other

somehow beyond

what we each think

or know



we need each other

too much



when you are all

i am



we grow

spooky knuckle

i’m too happy to be sad.
no, correction, i’m too appreciative to find rest at any polar end; any end.
the way i see it, there are no ends. birth? death?
not: “in the middle,” “gray area”;
“all”
concepts, not beginning, not end; abstracts we arrive at to situate ourselves and make nice the continual congress held with instinct, intellect, intuition, wisdom, and the rest of the insinuate parties present.

my fragile outward crust gives fragile outward abbreviations
inept needles poking about exaggerations
trying to find the stitch in time to rhyme
along lines that cut the dime in half

my left nickel
upon a spooky knuckle
can be worth the whole of sentiment quilted in our nuclear present
its value sticks on the keys of our xyz’s

correction in the white out
noise of the clack and clack

the stable
where all rest just fine

and i’m screaming, “hay!”

tantrum epistaxis

i was crowded, and thought the world a bit tight. and right when i was getting ready to rip the mantle, my nose started bleeding. what timing!
my grays were so obliterated to black and whites that i stripped the threads and the earth reset.
just like that!
and i was all like "well shucks."