Do not say I am antique, ornament, or furniture. What I know of collectables is that their lot in life is to be lifeless:
porcelain statues, glass vases, baby dolls, painted with wide Atlantic Ocean eyes. Arms and legs
pretzel-crossed mantel piece–prizes, immovable and still, each blemish perishable, each rust stain removable.
The undertaking is not in being concealed, it’s staying stationary, unchanged, not letting the sun age our cast-iron skin. Each body part appraised
and valued, checking our brassy finish for tarnish and paint chips, stroking our clay pot bottom for dents.
But I am not for sale, so do not call me art, call me revelation— origami concept of an architect.
Call me a twisted science, a multi-dimensional formula with depth that changes and adapts.
I am a contemplation, a technique to be approached from many sides. Call me a complex thought leaping from an immeasurable brain.