Natan Lawson

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
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.