näˈstaljə

Little baby girl,   little mind,


Little heart holding onto things that speak

Short term memory loss, but not for things that were good

Stood out like fire inside

Caress the warmth, it’s cool, I’ll do it

I've got tumors in my chest full of little trinkets and crumpets

Bittersweet like chocolate chips

Feelings are only good for after dinner suppertime

Pre-child, Post death.   I can’t do that,   so step aside

I know what I know what I know and that is all I don’t know but me

Don’t want to get away from what I am

Don’t want to get lost in these new worlds full of things

That we hide under, rocks and cloth and computer keys and such


The more I’m lost in a mess, the more I’m gripping onto this chest

The only thing I know that knows me

And I know it right back


Ive got a lot of talk and big ears for you,

Some nostalgic naivety and stubborn eyes for the world around me,

But I am happy with my smiles and with my whatevers


I know that I already know this

And in that case I know I'll be ok

Excavations.

My work is an explosion of all the junk inside of me.

This may not be something that you can see and feel

                          but my heart,        it leaps and knows what it knows when it sees it. 

Most of the time        my organs feel like balloon animals,  drifting about inside

this playpen

  for playtime.  

                         my head, is a slushy of hues.

holding shapes in my eye corner’s crease,    glitter in my wrinkles   and most of the time    I don’t care about you-    the audience-    and what you want to think of this.

                                                                           
                        I have to just be me if that’s okay

   and I need these things, these colors and shapes and lines   to burst out of me and in your face,

on walls,

and through eyes      and into my work.

I can’t help what others won’t love    but I have to know that I’m doing the best at loving what I do

     

and if that means coloring the whole goddamn world,   then I’m going to do it

      despite what you think of this word “art.”

                 Despite what you think of this word “people” and the words "as artists"

and despite this “success” that everybody is talking about.

Process, like life, is moving hands and itchy fingers.     Nails are chipping with the paint chipped walls.

                        If I can’t get lost then I can’t claim that I’ve been.

I need to feel its pain before I can love it. 

                            Pattern galore gore,  puking everywhere,           as usual.

Everything I love is a symbol for how I feel.

It’s really nowhere near complex,

                                                     I work off my sleeve

          and most of my life and work is what it is.

I have no problem telling you what my day is like    and what part of the brain my art comes from.

  I can’t help what I love   and I love so much.

All I know is that
            My ugly will overtake all your ideas of pretty polished artwork

     I am the sole believer in ugly colors,  and all colors,  and I would like to let them breathe. All over
Everywhere

I will overwhelm you with my textile marshmallow fluff

                                                                                         So get ready and boa up

           I'm going to open up what is still in me,     and play with it,

let it loose         and keep it around until it feels right           

Nothing, really, should be thrown away, 

      especially the years when we were made to fly   and felt the most free

Things In Jars

In terms of glass bottles,

  

Things in jars,

I think of myself,

                Just always wanting to fill it up.

Want the city feel among other things,         I want your stories.

I'm always wanting things that are never for me

  but include the word i. 

something’s wrong. 

"I need this because I love her so much."      How can that ever be?

Some people don’t get it right with me.

                                Cant cry about it.     Cant throw sticks and fists       or puff my chest like blocks of ice.

Put it in a jar
and leave.

                                        I will collect you up until I feel good about it.

So, shake your head,

Stop and shake.    Stop     and lift the lid,       get in       and twist it shut.

                                       When I think about the fog,  blinding alley ways,

                                                                                                                                     I think about power.

Wrap around me. 

   Move between my feet.

                 Eat the ground like you do best.

 Give me a little ugly brown and red I wait for each year.      Get in my head and dye it.

            Don’t care how long it takes, im going to be someone beautiful

Filling my jars along the way   

                          Need the feeling of things,    even if they aren’t there

Need my jars,  need my people,  

                                                     You people.     Doing Sunday things.

 I need you for Sunday,   My Sunday things.  

                                                                            For my jars and things.