1/1000 by Austin Ventola

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Me.

A picture is worth a thousand words. But 1/1000 focuses on the one, the most thought-provoking thing through its simplicity. Through tasteful graphic design and modernist art ideals, I seek to connect the viewer to an inner space that is both designed and interpreted. 1/1000 is not itself a word, but a fraction. A ratio. A relationship. What is not said is just as important as what is. My poems in 1/1000 are about the relationship with one’s past and present self and the mental overlap memory creates. It explores what happens when the thinker becomes the observer of their own thought. Down-to-earth yet profound, themes of lost love and remembrance are focal. To each person, my poetry and design may be interpreted on an individual basis. “Thought” is the centerpiece. It is just as much a part of my process as is my execution. Even thoughtlessness can be a methodology. In the same way the human condition often reflects experimentation in experience, so too does my work.

L O R E M

I P S U M

Shared A curious kind of touch. The warmth that resonates between twined fingers that sit in our lap hardly at rest.

You, with your crimson grove that waved passively in the breeze behind those long-abandoned homesteads in the West. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d curl your fingers around the perfect branch of Maplewood you found and watch the poppies sway beneath thatch and root blind to the eyes of eyes that watch them.

Me with my yellow plastic shovel that I soon will lose. A shallow dug moat of fine ground sand, battered from millennia of crystal cascades, salient tide that will retire this sandcastle that was never mine.

But the poppies will always sway and the castle will always stand in the memories we gave when we used to Touch.

I hope I shared enough with you.

Tape Sometimes you just feel stuck. Ankle deep in the tight-woven glue of your unwashed comforter crumpled like an empty paper bag on the edge of your bed when it feels so much nicer to roll over at noon than to wake up alive.

Cut another, it snaps up trapping my fingers in its sharp suicide, I peel it from my skin

to try again.

Tape holds together. It keeps down. It pins up. Tape sticks around. It’s rolled up. It’s thrown out. Tape is where staples are not, where paperclips fail, when nails are too much.

I like it better when it’s face down.

tape

sometimes you just feel stuck

beat Humid skin stuck together in a sea of well-used linen, skin that likes to hang on even after you let go. Pollen falls slowly outside our window, softly kissing the afternoon grass, looking not ahead nor behind, but in their perfect present of silence.

Her xylophone heart bears the beat of an uncertain brook, I listen through her red sweater over soft skin. Homemade pasta coiled gently around our tines, Coiled warm together in a smile so sweet on our couch, resting nowhere in particular.

This infinity concrete as the wind that blew yesterday. As true as a dream remembered.

We swayed unsteadily, arms interlocked on the narrow prow of our little sailboat rocking in the deep blue waves. Our eyes were set on each other, not the approaching horizon. But to love her was to love the horizon and the boat and the waves and the sail, and when the storms rage, it was hard to keep track of them alL.

Seeds Seeds are the worst thing about eating fruit. Especially when you don’t expect them. And it doesn’t help when they’re wrapped in sweet, juicy flesh so thoughtlessly savored. Small and hidden and unassuming but when they yield and crack beneath my teeth they christen everything sour. Shards of mulch and fibre now replacing pleasure, bitter and sharp from A breach uncalled for. Seeds are heavy.

Biding in the womb of my belly it’s dense and rough and uneven. It’s scratched and scraped and sometimes bleeds but it remains. Its detestable beckoning of passive repulsion. A thorned vine, woven helix through my spine, Patient tendrils like weeds long forgotten to be pulled in the back of my father’s yard.

Because I water it.

A moment Patient thatched roof sewn by hands not needed remembering, Seated you stand on the corner Casting dull evening shadow from a doubtful orange streetlamp above Is where I first breathed I loved you.

The heartbeat of my turn signal staves away the deafening silence. This time, I drive slow. Eyes locked on this place I’ll never return. palm sweat. butterflies. morning breath. sticky skin. sand. rain. goodbye. I can’t remember if I cried. I can’t remember if it mattered. But I remembered everything else Of our spiraling Love in this Moment of Passing Peace.

of passing

Mother Dense white misty forest Aspens of manifold diameter loom as is their wont Some of these places I have been, yet they share their in-betweens without conflict in passive reminisce.

Genesis. Corrugate memories spindled around my lifetime A dew dropped web delicately abandoned in the morning sun. A chorus of unsung cacophony seems as infinite mirrors to lessons of Growth.

Past and Present know each other in one direction but only influence counterpart in the other where wisdom meets touch in timeless histories of Motherhood.

Where Where did you go? Why didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t I? When did you leave? And where did I stay?

Fringe lost on the fringe of my split ends tangled up knots of what i’m trying to say. sometimes i think i confuse myself on purpose so i don’t have to hear myself say it. replaced by the oceans in shells that impose on my eardrums beat persistent, like wandering fish.

between all the rocks and hard places i could be i chose the one that looks so much like home but feels so much like a labyrinth. if only i had dreamt a sign. now i’m counting clocks waiting for the cover of night to excuse my paralysis.

it’s a game i made up where the rules say that no one wins but at least you get to keep playing when i know it’s not true because the game must end and if no one can win then where do i go?

today i ate an unripened peach half was good, but the rest

I threw away.

A collection of drawings and sketches.

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