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