Sonnet XX
I shake a notebook of empty
pages and say, It’s all in here
Every word of it Dead dogs and stolen
property Embraced
debauchery For 30 years I had
no story to tell Only words
in need of form Every breath
a bomb An infinite
space to fill I see now that death
is just an idea A very real
idea As much an ethos as
an aesthetic Textured
sadness Language etched
into fiber optics Which is to say, light
Justin Marks: Artist Statement