I am blueprint. I imprint legacy.

I wear the jeans of my forbears, recut,

cutting to the quick of recognized purpose,

repurposing the raw fuel into me processed

as living art, constituted of info-bits electric

and parts eclectic. So, I propose,

for what I now compose,

the forthcoming metric:

My fingers tear apart and stitch, as hands

on a ticker; tickling the spine

of our grandfather clock: –––

the selfsame, an echo,

from then to now rebounding

off the walls, unchanged for their parts,

but with a sum new each season.

A genetic decoded

through reason. Rhyming action revealed

as I take what I saw

and make into what I see. And we all

take this form again to its next

reconstitution, of this circle

every revolution a recycling

of the early into later,

the now into soon.

Toward this ever-moving point I sprint,

generated in the rift between past and present,

presenting itself in monochrome,

its home in vacuum-creation,

so I go from what I know

and breathe this new-old narration:

Variation of striation of paths

requires exploration.

I’ll dip into shaded pits

––intuition––

The textures I brush with sticky fingers,

peeling away what I can reuse—

the neglected shapes in the negative

spaces of everyday.

Such techniques limber my eye,

mending a thread never broken –– always passed on

and allow hollow revisitation of the new ––

knew to the old.

As a revenant lurker about my work, I resurrect

the once-reflected, the scraps rejected. I save

what others infected with the reproducing virus of inspiration

have left to the discard pile.

It’s no waste to wile away some time

over misplaced components

to linger––––

and if on reused tropes I lay my finger,

still, I can’t dope myself with genesis

when there is here cause to reminisce on what’s gone before,

as it flows into what comes next.

(So to proceed)

Composition is re-composition:

As a script stuffed in an envelope,

never mailed,

this distended edict envelops me

and evolves in its own formation, with little useful

distinction between

what I intended

and what happened.

The product?

Reformation is transliteration—

literation literally:

the conversion of text

from one script to another.

Of the new,

the old is always mother.