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I appreciate the creative process of assembling words much in the same way I do the assemblage of objects. I enjoy the rhythmic balance of beat and verbal imagery combined with thought provoking, heartfelt truths and the line of communication it casts out for making an emotional connection. 
 
In 2013 I created an inspired series called "Her Words" dedicated to my dear friend and brilliant poet Silvi Alcivar of The Poetry Store.
 
 For this piece, a deconstructed cuckoo clock was collaged completely on 3 sides in a composed "skin" of meticulously cut-out words from several books that I arranged into a deliberate narrative poem of my own titled: “Her Words Gave Home to My Heart” as transcribed below:

I

She had her mystery Typewriter knowing everything in-worded black sweat

Unplug sincere Wind from The glisten applied to your eyelids

One letter, one word Never solves itself.

Each letter luminous

a world dream

Poets pulled from its rollers praying & preying the in between in the passage sea, the light

Be reinforced against poetry’s fists.

Let me be with my pieces

Needle thru cloth

closures & openings turns each page

her body Splinters my brain into cluster of Words in knowing metaphor

way out yes,

death by layers sometimes the more lovely

Keep night company

They remain fragments.

Sewing jokes into One line at a Time u held in a poet until doubt letter formed a shark cartilage

Visions woke me up

slick slippery perfume & all of the hummingbirds Sing to her as she turns the pages.

a Poet I knew even what I didn’t

No judgment

she had a plan 

sew pieces together

I Grieved & Raged

Open the book and it turns into wings. poetry

she stands in front of the splatters of text in space. 

I thought I knew

Question my poem   

asking questions leads to more Words

dark eyes Protect each key stuck in our distinct pain chains 

poetry

Sectioned flesh looks back through blood mouths, so precise  

motion through a monocle & those who grieve Night the canopy our poem

a hummable tune art rides on.

Song against dark. O mere words,

but sing the blues soft guitars  

Pull long veils down majestic hallways

what’s unsaid you can barely speak Praises, sorrows, joys unknown

deeply The page is in pieces focused on each remaining moment

what’s to be said Fragments & whispers have big eyes for death

the ozone

Worm into words which too small & adhere to life

once-upon-a-time lemming typewriters Enter this white room it’s kaleidoscopic

& Everything beyond the margins of a bird which refuses to fly or speak Rimbaud

Each word the word hung from each word

trace it like a shooting star wingless and mulched roses.

How To the end spoke

The watch whose hands fall off high pitched sing Laughing against knowledge swallow song

My poem is bits & splinters 

I plant it within Page after page of my book To see A coin deep in Writes thru time

Darkness allows me dark overcoat pocket

face to face by death’s mystery before they turn into cold awakening

everything was Poetry Ready for distraction in the dark Into dawn

Scattered like stars Now at the end of the line of all traits, straight

the letters assigned as words

what anything means or meant gets lost

Remainder and skeleton of my soul is restless.  

I return from a past that never entered itself to the shining things in the end  no more

My blood mixes with plaster   

A patchwork poem - My poem is pieces

Allow me these fragments on a page or in a museum in the end forever

Art’s desire to get it all said Reminds me of a poem from despair

Assembling words already caught haunt me.

I seek it in black poem more approachable Upside down looking for a home. 

but vocabulary because of music that loops a mystery around love & imagination.

All are my poem 

Art’s struggle to sing it all now dying unties that to naked open beings under a half-shell drenched in all her extravagant ways of forgiveness

loss by loss the great cosmic imaginary vein

Vision requires love’s attention but yet write the notes of poems and they can be anything Forever captured to sing afterwards

I saw it in my words, saw its wings move heart left over the desk I work on. 

Who hears the poem sing, Snowfall

but it’s what’s not there within glass windows disconnected

push against the edge of romance spreading Letters, numbers, codes

Memory Arise, touch eyes open angel wing’s tongues over my head, over my bed with ink. 

turn into blood, sing splinters from dreams.

poems are elusive. they know they can’t look back in and see the sea, a stranger beneath moonlight Alive with song and content with elephants.

words work best and lead to everything unsaid.

I'm an orphan - my skin darkens into night

I was a Poet free-falling where once fearful first seen in a phone booth there

Let me stay with you a while. 

thin skins black with language to tame my rage arising. 

Her haunted words to read triumphing Truth.

So much confession torn between enjoyable spirals then we vanish in photographs sensing Death and what do you say?

always something

she multiplies extraordinary & lights of the ordinary word to become swallowing stars.

Poetry you’ll see Nostalgia 

The past that changes Brown eyed Hunger for love so hidden in this feast of dueting poetry

small detail gathering first thoughts on a thread of words in her eyes

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