Poetry On The Street
I Listen With My Eyes, And Write The Stories I Hear
Visual poetry exists everywhere. It exists in small details that are so easy to pass by. It exists in weary plant forms. It exists above and below eye level.
I catch glimpses of dancing forms when I slow my feet down. When I allow my eyes to softly roam the field of view. When I let my heart lead the way. When I stop to listen with my eyes.
In Oaxaca so much lives behind wrought iron bars and scrolling grillwork. When these bars stretch across boarded up windows and doorways, they become a safe refuge, for refuse.
The patterns of grills and water stained plywood are an invitation to throw aways. These shallow vertical spaces become garbage collectors. Perhaps better here, than the sidewalk or street.
In an odd way, the throw aways become art. Each new piece adds to the abstract composition. Some artists work this same way.
