AN EDGE,
AT LEAST I THINK SO
A HAND,
GRASPING A SHOULDER PLANE, CLEANING
MY WORK IS
AT THE EDGE OF THE IMAGE’S CROP
BETWEEN
WHEN THE BODY BEGINS AND WHEN THE
BODY ENDS
A post on
the bulletin reads:
“Looking
for Love.”
The post
includes a photograph of a man, cropped from bottom of his nose to the top of
his knees. He is smiling in the photograph, with his hands on his hips,
creating a crude diamond shape around his torso.
I SAY WHEN
BECAUSE THE CROP—A DIVISION OF SPACE—IS ALSO AN ACTION
AN IMPOSED
ACTION
IT IS ALSO
AN INSTRUCTION
THERE IS
NO SEPARATION BETWEEN WORK AND LIFE
WHAT DO
YOU DO?
“I build props. I
can’t wrap my head around that, ‘props’. They’re stand-ins, right? For the real
thing? But maybe not. No maybe they’re called props because they can’t stand on
their own. They have to be propped up. Or maybe they are prop-osals of what it
could be? Or prop-ositions. Anyway, I just make ‘em.”
SOME BODY
HAS TO DO IT
THE BODY OF AN OBJECT’S MAKER AS A LOCUS FOR DESIRE OF THAT OBJECT
Occasionally,
his kneecaps would drift between—below the skin, above the bone.
One night,
after he had fallen to sleep in his favorite chair, he woke up and found his
kneecaps displaced, resting atop his feet.
THE
THRESHOLD OF THE COMMENT BOX LOOKS BACK
“That
which I should have done I did not do.”
THE INSIDE
OF MY GLOVE IS SOFT
THE INSIDE
OF MY BOOT IS SOFT
MY
UNDERSHIRT IS SOFT
MY SOCKS
ARE SOFT
MY
UNDERWEAR IS SOFT
THERE IS A
PERFECT EDGE
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