In the Vice of the Big Picture
What is harder, the border, the pictures
or the brightness of light and dark pieces?
It is a mishmash, sordid assortment of
escapism, scrutinized under illumination.
Piece by piece, I fall to pieces, pick them up,
scatter them to my mind’s wind, hem and haw
over the nuances; why do I torture myself so?
In the vice of the big picture - resounding parks.
Two canvas frames, two boxes, tepid waters,
the need to complete, competing only with
me, myself and I. Now, I see everything in
tabs and blanks, even as I count sheep.
Even as I watch t.v., the pixels penetrate my eye,
portion into die-cuts. Dioxyribonucleic acid flesh -
are we pixelated…like paper doll cut-outs with
wardrobe and accessories, my own Barbie palace?
Soon, I will finish this 27 by 20 preoccupation.
With a stethoscope and head mirror, examine
each rectangle - 63 squares; my hope - not
one morsel is lost, pieces of my life complete.
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