Identity

“This could be my anywhere”

crossed legs

sitting sinking into seat

I as language

I as photo

can’t make noise at myself

I am the double

layered

skinned

the one and my many

The poet’s photos are

detail

texture

they like to wake you up in the middle of the night. Make you walk outside without shoes on, to look at the moon. These photos are the individual, the voice under the fingernail.

The body’s photo’s are

curvy

broad

They will leave you breakfast by your bed. They are a connection. A train. They are the landscapes of the world. These photos are the faceless crowd, where everyone is in focus.

The “I’s” photos are

left blank

over exposed

(these photos like to slip under your radar, waiting to get deleted for once found we cannot help but expose and find what is under the light. These photos live under our bed, and tickle our feet in the middle of the night.)

(I)

I want words to drip like paint

I want to play with language and light

I want color to redefine the scape of every

blank space.

I want my photos to show how I see the world.

What I notice

what I don’t notice

I want my photography to be the 1000 words we cannot say

the words we don't know how to say.

the words we do not know how to spell.

I as photo

I as light

I as everything over exposed. 

 arms unfolded 

standing I

breath

deeply 

Self

Self, a set on Flickr.

Photography and Death

“The living do not bury the dead, the dead bury the living” –Jack Spicer

Look differently

once

and they are gone

immortally immobile

temporally displaced

the dead have the ultimate

potential

the space between photos

story remains unwritten

helplessly mute

rewritten

hanging on limb by broken limb

off decaying gravestone.

bone crumbles faster

granite commuter trains

the dead never die

“oh come and believe me oh come and believe me to-day oh come

and believe me oh come just for one minute”

anonymous portraits

weathered

the difference

spreading

the space between who you

could be

and me

standing over an empty plot

time seeps

“There is no gratitude”

tipping the scale

tattooed into balance

can we switch places in stone

skipping them

till they sink

“with so many dead to respect it gets quiet difficult not to offend anyone”

voices

lingering no longer listening

desensitized to people

they have never met

immortal only in name

ghostly memories printed on

doors that never open

being forever in motion

creates a sense

of always

standing still

the temporary proof of existing

the footsteps in the sand

the ocean never washed away

The impression of the dead is porous. Sugar coats the glass doorways. Today I want to meet your silent portrait. Trailing in capstone sweetness, ripped out and sewing spines down highway intersections. I wanted to clean your grave. No obligation. The wrinkle where you used to smile. The glitter grinding the gears, isn’t that lovely. Refuse interior. I tried to interact today. And yet in a place where being alive is second nature, feeling alive is pushed into dark holes waiting till the gates open again. In a place where everyone goes to talk to the dead, I believe the dead stopped listening a long time ago. They stare out at us in empty photographs, looking at the space between now and what will be. What happens when the photographs fade, when the gaze of our loved ones reaches the brink and they blink?

Today

we drink.

(quotes taken from Gertrude Stein, except for the last quote I said that one) 

Piere Lachaise Cemetery

Piere Lachaise Cemetery, a set on Flickr.

Eiffel Tower

Effile Tower, a set on Flickr.