part of a private collection
As years pass, sitting on a shelf yellowing with time is the old book.
Somehow the day comes, there is no more room, it is full of dust, tattered and torn,
perhaps even smells funny, and it finds it way to
A garage sale equaling 10 cents
The goodwill packed in a box with other tattered friends
thrown in the Junk against a pile of other castaways
or even the landfill as if a proper burial
Some are lucky
and used for all the beauty inside, and the story they told
Even as it goes under transformation,
critics are angered, hurt, and sickened
emotions they throw the artist's way.
I guess some would honor the book,
and all its splendor just left in its final resting place.
I reconstruct old books, and create sculptures in honor of the story within.
It really isn't my Art, it is simply What is in a book.