In the middle of America, our modest city geometries sit empty in the darkest morning hours. I drive, scouting for life that might be peeking from between blinds, from over a second story balcony, from a lighted hallway. In the deep night it is only me and the houseplants. These paintings are improvised recapitulations of my wanderings into Midwestern cityscapes and my encounters with arresting juxtapositions of the wild and banal. The potted plant is corporate dressing, tacky decorative punch-up in the American business script, sitting like a bizarre non-sequitur in fallow corners. Big fronds buttress hollow columns, covertly reclaiming the fly-over-states, whispering memories of vast prairies from beside the water-cooler. The plants roam midnight strip-malls, play spotlight shadow-games on superstore big-boxes, and lay like lovers in the lawns of mega-churches. They make a jungle in the dead-center of the USA.