Artist

​I wanted to be a cosmonaut.

I wanted to be a mortician.

I wanted to be a physicist.

I wanted to be a physician.
I wanted to be a pharmacologist.

I wanted to be a statistician.

I wanted to be a suicidologist.

I wanted to be a rhetorician.
I wanted to be a biologist.

I wanted to be a cryptographer.

I wanted to be a psychologist.

I wanted to be a stenographer.
I wanted to be a dentist.

I wanted to be a cartographer.

I wanted to be a chemist.

I wanted to be a steganographer.

But these aren’t for me,

’cause I’m an artist, see?

Words

Words are expressions of a feeling, a thought, an idea, a concept, an experience.

These words are expressions of what words are, where words come from, how words can be used, and why.

All words begin in the mind. The developing mind learns the language of it’s place of birth. It learns to spell words and read and write sentences. It learns past, present, and future tense and participle. It learns semantics, syntax, grammar, punctuation, the rules of language. It eventually forgets what all these things are called because the experience of hearing, speaking, reading, and writing language ingrains the subtleties of language in the mind. 

Words are first learned in infancy and early childhood to express basic needs:  pain, sleepiness, hunger, discomfort, comfort and desire for something/someone. Words evolve throughout life. An adult gains a wider vocabulary of words and deeper understanding of semantic, indicative, and sentimental meanings. Language becomes more than cerebral linguistic expressions of basic needs. Language shapes a person’s style, intellect, curiosity, comprehension, perception, psychology, personality, confidence, ideas, creativity, success, progress, and expression of emotions. Language becomes an indication of *something* deeper about a person. Language becomes a mechanism of significance.

Words are how we communicate with one another and make sense of our lives, surroundings, and experiences. Words are, for some individuals, the only way to keep living because words are their living. Words can be extroverted for the public speaker or introverted for the writer. 

Ideas are conceptions in the mind which can be expressed in words. Ideas can be idealistic or practical. Ideas can be prosperous or inconvenient. Ideas are from human imagination. Anything man-made in physical form once existed as an idea in someone’s imagination. Anything abstractly believed in is an idea from someone’s imagination. People took a liking to a lot of ideas and made whatever the ideas are into a hive-mind collective smash hit in objective reality.   Ideas are what we see making up the business of reality and subjective experience down to the very analysis of ideas themselves and the choice of descriptive words we fathom. 

I am…

Quality skill & intelligence
interjected with creativity & ambition gone awry…

Trying to be more of self is

being my own mother, my own father, my own teacher, my own friend, my own partner, my own family, my own boss, and my own support system, simultaneously, within the core essence of my identity which I so desperately try to individuate into functioning and free from the confines of emotional childhood underdevelopment and experiential depravity mixed within the valiance of my strength, the splendor of my ingenuity, and the magnitude of my vision.

I am a war inside looking for peace, 

looking for an end to madness,

a beginning to harmony,

for one solid, sufficient answer to the two ton load of questions…

Inner Child’s Symposium

My wounded inner child

brought forth outrageous fears

of self-love defiled

through pure intentions beguiled.

She’s confused diffusion

reflecting profuse delusion.

She attacks me with no mercy

and weaves my adult into controversy.

When I try to control her,

she rebels in ways that deter

the adult in me from leading my name.

All the frustration spirals to shame

and wish after wish that I never became.

How can I heal her, stop her, comfort her, love her?

How can I be one person: unimpeded, wholesome, complete?

How can I live right and be true

when it’s me she tries to defeat?

Adult self has been seeking guidance,

compliance, aide, sincerity, and real reliance

of how to authentically transform

inner child’s injured contrivance.

Who can accept the demon of my delinquency?

Who is wise enough to counsel my debility?

Who can teach me how to thrive with deficiency?

And who can love all of this contingency?

Patio

Genius is a 2 a.m. homeopathic Ambien underdose nerve stimulation machine of American Spirit 

drinking blood orange raspberry rum 

surrounded by an empty, dusty, vintage step-stool book shelf, hardcore-alien ware, and spiraled cast-iron psychedelia housing enamels, incense, ashtrays, duct tape, candles, paints, pens, plant particulars, and poker cards 

by an unfinished cicada shedding stand of sprayed magenta-green curled up leaves 

flaking a part inconsidered ideas–

Just waiting for acrylic revival. 

Lets send the genome off for scientific study to understand sensitivity of NMDA receptors. 

A perfectly imperfect mess is flawed in pristine ways. 

An imperfectly perfect mess is pristine in flawed ways.

All messes aren’t perfect to begin with.

The crazy world functionally wonders in a crazy way 

how a functioning world functions so crazily…

And this dry husk–

This near empty shell leaking obliterated psyche turpentines personas to a faded indelible shine

like a left-handed eight year old in 1865…
 

Contemplative ?s

what’s life? A spider spinning web? Blooming trees? Pinecones falling?

Human embodiment’s experience of emotions? 

An escape mechanism from non-existence?

Here’s an oxygenated, climactic wilderness of conglomerated cities intermingling oceans and raw earth…

A planet surrounded by space junk…

Can human imagination imagine itself never existing?

What’s life to people who are only existing?

What’s love to people who are slowly dying?

What’s death to people who are truly living?

Wounded Psyche

Why do we try to hide our wounds?
Conceal feelings of injured identity?

Bottle it up inside like sepsis?

Does that cause identity infection?

Is social infection inevitable

when we don’t hide wounds?

Like how you can’t hide

the psychological equivalent

of major abdominal surgery,

as you barely walk your thoughts…

What is it to experience a healed psyche?

Can that happen from giving a fuck

amongst societal masses

of not giving a fuck?