used to

there was this greasy can of greasy stuff
used for greasing things like
pipes or wires or hinges oh
i don’t know it just used to go where
grease does

then there was this denty rectangle of turpentine
used to go in different places too when needed then, there
maybe for brushes that were the ones needed for a paint job
like a slap-dash bookshelf like mine here in the next room

wood does that
it forms cubes and holds things, smells like wood
then hides beneath paint and its turpentine
mine did, and mostly I just watched

mostly now I am acrylic and have less knowing of
how to cut and fit make three dimensions whole
mostly I fidget and slop and let blotches become
only play with paint

and hope for better than tragedy of enough spilt turpentine
to encourage a blaze like the furnace nearby it ate
wood and coal and suggested it could be me as well
but I refused then

there was this other work to get done, hammer out
grease and bend
cut and color
there was, after all, this and its use

used to

marchk

Joined November 2007

  • Artist
    Notes

Artist's Description

A poem of passion for wood. Wood is both connection to and symbol of absence of father. And a tribute to the nights after working all day in the factory when he’d show me how soft wood was after graphite had eaten his hands alive and split them open.

desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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