For me, poetry has always been an exercise in futility. A moment of recognition, invariably seen through the lens of recollection, polished in the grist mills of hindsight, reduced to melodrama and hung on the backs of mannequins in department store windows. The fact that I relish this process secures my status as a gentle lunatic, arranging cardboard cameos in shadowbox dioramas, offering imperfect still life depictions for shoppers passing by on the sidewalk. And yet, this is exactly the sort of futility that preoccupies me. Tirelessly searching people’s eyes for a flash of recognition, daring me to believe that a small kernel of truth might be revealed if properly arranged within the clutter.
Naked Mannekin is exactly that: a cold hard look at moments of simple truth hidden in plain sight. Moments captured in a butterfly net and pinned to the wall. There are no landscapes here, no surveyors connecting the dots of understanding, and no one to define the center of my intellectual compass rose. I intend to go where the poetry takes me, come what may.
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