inside the square of acute angle
where father’s towered like stubborn cupboard
a rubbish like a broken pencil-holder
knocked down unintentionally off his desk
may have resulted in reproach
beneficial to his daughter’s future
where now she has finally arrived
she splits the fiber of the pencil-holder crack
examining it to the light from narrow window
at the desk next to the sofa
by the wall acutely angled to the jamb
that blocks the cupboard
towering behind crack-opened door
out of the therapist’s office
where father’s towered like stubborn cupboard
a rubbish like a broken pencil-holder
knocked down unintentionally off his desk
may have resulted in reproach
beneficial to his daughter’s future
where now she has finally arrived
she splits the fiber of the pencil-holder crack
examining it to the light from narrow window
at the desk next to the sofa
by the wall acutely angled to the jamb
that blocks the cupboard
towering behind crack-opened door
out of the therapist’s office
This is
painting in progress. When I work, I don’t think of meaning. Art has no
meaning. Meaning is a curtain that blocks inexplicable. Art is behind the curtain. Does it make any
sense? I really crave for you, my audience, to bear no witness to any meaning
pertaining the painting in progress I am presenting to you in this display. It
would be especially dear to me since the culprit of presented painting is my
own father captured in the old photo before I’ve even known him. I beg you to
dismeaning it all! Witness art, will you?
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