Meghan Kelsey,   David Joseph,   Steven  Michael Abell,   Joel Salcido,   Susan Nguyen 
Time-Based Sculptures
Over the course of one week in 2018, five Arizona-based poets composed and documented a series of time-based sculptures from the materials of their everyday. The images that follow reflect (practically and fantastically) some of the ways in which their expressions of race, gender and ability manifest in the meshing of their physical and mental landscapes.
                                                                                                              - Sarrettta Morgan

Meghan Kelsey


“You think that whatever is happening after all this time is a solution being born”


                                                                                                                                   - Molly McCully Brown


Stephen Hawking had just died. In an article remembering his accomplishments I read that as years passed, people urged Hawking to replace his outdated voice system program, the Equalizer. He refused, expressing that his identity was now formed around this program and he wouldn’t “be himself” if it changed. I had just upgraded to a functional pair of hearing aids and it struck me that I, too, was a cyborg—reliant upon technology to communicate. It can be a complicated and beautiful way to live. Who am I with my costly, electronic ears? Who would I be otherwise?

meghan kelsey egg.jpg



The expensive seed is in a good place on a sunny day and birth is normative progress.


Meghan Kelsey, 2018

Meghan Kelsey buds.jpg



Bluetooth pairing may offer a small amount of freedom in the energy of the organic movement of a nervous system. ​


Meghan Kelsey, 2018

Meghan Kelsey plant.jpg



A blending of voices so one difference cannot be distinguished from another is a version of art and its audience.​


Meghan Kelsey, 2018


David Joseph              (After Molly McCully Brown)


For a few years I’ve been composing written fragments exploring the relationships between and around nine-year-old fraternal twins, a fictional sister and brother.  In composing these sculptures, I was working to refine and complicate the twins’ yearnings and preoccupations—and mine—doubling and division, nature and family, displacement and loss, God and love. With titles mined from poems and essays by Molly McCully Brown, the images aspire to expose the permeable bounds of the un/shared body.

David rock.jpg



The Echo of My Sibling's Name Inside My Own​.


David Joseph, 2018.

David rocksss.jpg



The Fearful and Wonderful Disassembly of a Hundred Gods​.

David Joseph, 2018.

David puddle.jpg


The Emptiest, Most Forgiving Part of Me Is Tired of Feeling Responsible for Silence​.

David Joseph, 2018.

Steven Michael Abell


My prescriptions tell you what kind of a poet I am for their side-effects. For the conditions they treat. ​My medications are a substance and a tool and a subject. They help me figure out what to draw and write and build. I fucking hate every single one of them. I need them. I am married to them. They are there for me every morning and every night.

Abell bottles.jpg

Making a Long Putt to Save Par on Hole 18 at The Fun Forest​.


Steven Michael Abell, 2018.

Abell blur.jpg

Blurred Vision Loss of Balance Complete Lack of Enterprise Easier to Capture Dry Mouth Vivid Dreams Nausea Grogginess Paranoia​.

Steven Michael Abell, 2018.

Abell upside down.jpg

CVS Pharmacy Bought My Insurance Company.​

Steven Michael Abell, 2018.

Joel Salcido


I produced these manipulated digital photographs with materials in my backyard and the office where I work. My intention was to curate and then alter the images until they resembled what I conceptualized as entrances into the impossible.

Joel mattress.jpg

Alleyway Entrance to a Borgesian Labyrinth​.


Joel Salcido, 2018.

joel fern.jpg

Broken Stairway in the Key of Fibonacci.


Joel Salcido, 2018.

joel boxes.jpg

The Maze of Post-Late Capitalism.​

Joel Salcido, 2018.

susan pic.jpg

Susan Nguyen



I am learning how to hold grief in my mouth. Something alive until it isn't.

Like a field is a field until it isn’t, until it is just the color green.

Listen when I tell you how a field folds into a clover when I am on my hands,

how the memory of what I am looking for is not as important as the ground it claims.

I don’t mean that grief can be unalive.

Or that I keep it loaded in that place between lower lip and teeth.

I mean I never walked the land where my father harvested seeds.

In his field, he waited for green to bend into gold.

It would start in the center: a single blade splitting light until there was nothing else.

My father remembers. I watch my shadow.

Both feel like grief.

I was born here, sinking into mud, and I mean to return.

On my hands, I am digging.

“An American Burial ii”: What is Buried is Not What Remains​.

Susan Nguyen, 2018.

susan plant.jpg

“Euphoria Ringed with Uncertainty”: (Another Word for Possibility, Danger).​

Susan Nguyen, 2018.

susan blue pebbles.jpg

“Where I Am Offering My Body / Where My Body is An Offering”: Happy to Be Here.

Susan Nguyen, 2018.