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Cobweb - Tom Hundersmarck

Cobweb - Tom Hundersmarck

Mixed Media

36" x 56"



J. Nishida


honest answers take too long


better casual flingings

instant cobwebs, not even cobwebs

from never-woven strands—

they float away, leaving every corner



even denotation weighs too heavily

forget connoting, forget subtext, shading, hint and wind, the artistry of weaving

forget riddle—



hiccup an emoji

a like, a smiley face, a frown


we’ve misplaced time

and meaning

somewhere in the mildew under the sink

or green-fuzzed in fridge?

perhaps in pantry

behind the instant rice

the cup-o-soup

the freeze-dried coffee—


hurry! hurry!

or you’ll  miss  that


it’s a joke

(an old one)

cut-and-pasted on a still

from a second-rate remake, film

plot stolen from a not-bad older movie

rewritten by some studio slave

back in the day

from a pretty good play

adapted from a novel, now forgotten

based on an old-world fairy tale

once illustrated

well before the turn of some gone century

by the thousand mindful cuttings of the woodblock artist

in workshop

silent, but for low humming

and the sounds carried in by the breeze

and the scratch-scratch-scratch of carving—


a thousand mindful prods and delvings—

leave space for both sky and substance—

what stays will be the wet and color and press and dry and line and play

of slow gaze over page—


the wood, sweat-huffed shocks of chop and shape

had fallen on a much earlier day—

old cherry tree

orchard planted, tended, handed down from grand-to-grand-to-grand—

wood long-seasoned, planed

sanded, planned—



think right to left instead of left to right, reflect 

think what goes deep will be  what isn’t   lines most obviously laid

on the surface of things—


and substance—

curls of wood and dust 

caught in breeze—

sift and light

on the surface of things—

floor and brow and lips and hands  and


on still-thick sticky strands

of webs of living spinners, ever weaving and reweaving


to illustrate 

the reach

and the lines between the gaps

and the spaces

in the corners of things


they cling

even when the weavers are long since dead—

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