Introducing Picasso and Nunez aka ANu Picasso a pair of L.A. poets and painters coming to a gallery near you.  

Our first big gig will be at the Nuetra Gallery and Museum on Glendale Blvd. in Silver Lake coming up in September.

Come check out East and West Balanced, it will surely be an art show you'll always remember.  

Curated and coordinated by the one and only, Dulce Stein, Dulcepalloza 2018 guarantees a good time.

Just another ditty on who we are, this is a poem my partner Picasso put out:

BALANCED

He is the torch
I am the white
He is the dark
I am the light
We don't impress
   to be blessed.
We're blessed
   to impress
Hate us or love us
But don't love to hate us
We're the Ying and
the Yang of this Earth
Both with the
same day of birth
He is the east
and I am the west
But together we're
simply the best.

She flaunts her flaws like it was a piece of art in a gallery,
She let the people criticized her,
She let the people love her,
She let the people interpret every detail of her


But as the people come into and go out to gallery,
As people get used to her beauty and flaws
She remembered that she's not an art in a gallery
So she hide her flaws like a nun covers her body

Your memory hangs on the wall of my mind like a prized work of art. In those moments, when lost in a day dreaming daze, I drift through the halls of my gallery and find you there. Each emotion painting a different perspective of your canvas in constant flux, an abstract view that changes with the phases of the moon. But I can’t look away. The boldness of the hue leaving me in awe, yet the blood streaks down from my bleeding heart, reminiscent of the agony of the wound that’s still open. I lock it in the room in the corner of my thoughts, like a *******, a glutton for the pain that the sight of you brings. I can’t bring myself to take it down, despite the pleas from my tired soul. I cling to that moment captured in time, in foolish hope that one day you will return. Return to acknowledge all the love, pain, and destruction that created these masterpieces in my collection. If only you could see the passion in every brush stroke. The subtle way the pigment whispers the truth of my intentions. Maybe then, you too will be in awe. Maybe then, you’d want to stay.

You keep me at eye level,
Examining for interpretations,
Think me either shady or too colorful;
That my perspective may be skewered.
You reach out to straighten me,
But recoil, gloveless.
Consider the Feng Shui
Of your living room.
Peer closer,
There's a face
Like a worrisome specter,
Like the picture.

I offer no defense of my hidden sin,
Not when it wastes a fragment of eternity
In frivolous expenditure, stretched so thin
Across another vast, sprawling century.
And if I would - if I were - where to begin
This tour of a macabre private gallery?
All things, even this one, have their beginnings:
Thus, my humble collection's underpinnings.

Called to this divine vocation, I set out
Each time I encountered one who, crafting art,
Demanded my attentions. Please: never doubt
The truth of my intentions; my swelling heart
Adores them, falls in love as they sing or spout
Their lifeblood inspiration. Stepping apart
From all of this, don't stare so miserably!
Can I be blamed for working literally?

I love them, one and all, and here I curate -
Safe from all the ravagings of time, if not
Precisely speaking safe from my own mandate -
The workings and workers who inspired such thought,
Such incisive action. I lay them in state
With tender care, never sold and never bought.
Perhaps a glance at my favorite pieces
Might reassure you? My latest releases?

Observe the cuts into copper, engraving
Her fury, her passion into the cold plates!
How torturous, yes? She recalled it, raving,
Having sought me out to deny the ingrates
Assailing her solitude, as a craving.
I preserved her passion. Here, her works’ mates:
The roses she treasured etched into the hard bone
Of her shoulder-blades and skull, instead of stone.

But so few beloveds grace my humble home
Despite my voracious eye surveying scores
Of likely lovers - artful, otherwise - some
Lacking, left uninvited. Those I adore,
I long to beckon close - close as you now come.
Join me? There's more to show you, so much more,
And I hope you'll linger tonight, to dine.
I've just the thing for an artist who loves wine…

The afternoon heat hung like a rising fever.
The old iron gates of the school yard wait to swing.
My feet planted near the outskirts.
Sweeping the sticky hair from my face,
alone I wait.

Chocolate melted in my pocket.
Minutes turn to hours.
A gallery of photographs has passed me by.
Panic snickers, searching for your face.
The waiting, the patience,
feeling more like a punch, than a verb.

The chocolate now a sticky ink, staining my pants.
I feel a voyager aboard a lost ship, floating,
hoping for shore.

Sudden without warning,
you grace my sight,
slow motion, near the gate door.
In one swing, you're here.
The wait long forgot,
hung on your beautiful stare.

Between humid dew and gilded light you ventured
Drinking in earthy mahogany hues
Men spoilt from their discomfort beside you
Touched by their patronage
You bloomed

Flowering tales of a world
On the cusp of progress and historical legacy
The torn flesh of your snowy mare
The warmth of blood and terror

Dripping
Peeling
Decaying

With my eyes
I taste your fear