I’ve noticed that the larger part of Pencil
People I have done in black on white
appear remarkably at ease: as if they use
their monochromatic sketchy ambiguities
for fun – far more to tease than please.
I’m rarely sure what any Pencil Person’s
looking at, though I remain quite certain
that it sees. They’re each a strangely
shadowed sort of being – favoring rash
scratches, blotches, traces whose faux pas
they sometimes think are graces – but
they don’t care if any graces get effaced.
The sourceless white around their floaty
charcoal threads and tangles by default
may seem like daylight, but Pencil People
are in fact determined denizens of night –
perversely though, not the night we know:
theirs has the glow of being blank, which they
appear to thank for its suggestion of the roll
of dice that will eventually spell their fate:
to be erased. Infinite Nonbeing is where
they’ve placed Paradise. And in one
blunt regard they’ve outraced us by far.
It’s said that life is carbon-based –
but not as much as Pencil People are.