These bones in my hands are cracked like rocks. My wrist is but a moment from air ballooning out of my arm. My mind...My mind is but an oatmeal of colors living endlessly in space and time.
Be the tea in my mouth and the Whiskey in my veins. I'm not unlearned. I am however on an endless road to education. The hope of my dream is to grow pra caramba.
I'm just waiting for the art to save me. To create me a new way. So that it hurts less to give so much of my self in these canvases. When I was a younger man I could make none stop and sleep standing next to my paintings, waiting for them to dry. Can't always live in the high and playful ways infinitely.
Paper people, a town, and a city. Next shows should be bigger then my mind can hold. To scream from my future eye.
