Boundaries pushed for lights and dance
America so eager to imitate gave you no chance
So you moved to art nouveau France
Where you twirl, spin, ignite leaving crowds in a trance

How that silk captures the flame so bright
Tricks of mirrors and stroboscopic lights
You strobos angel of the night
The crowd watches as you twirl in dizzying flight

The silk rose opens and morphs to flame
As you spin and dance your way to fame
All those impostors you have put to shame
The opera house now pronounces you a grande dame

All that training, all that tiresome work
Damaged eyes and mind driven berserk
Has created a new form of serpentine artwork
Exploding luminescent colors, a dancing firework

I look back.
What a magnificent sight!
The colourful journey
of my life.
If I died right now,
I would die in awe
of the story I am in.
Couldn't ask for more.
This whole thing
has been a miracle.
A masterpiece of God,
his artwork so lyrical.
I thank you right now,
for the whole world to see.
It's your breathe of life
that has enabled me
to be me.

Every new canvas or wood I begin, starts with a mental insult, turning into a dark alley street fight. All found objects are used as weapons.
Before my image, color, category, or medium is even applied. I somehow discredit or abuse the medium through extrasensory transference or ***** looks. Or am accused of it. After that, the cloth is unforgiving and taunting. And from there, I can not be placated and must defend myself.
Slights and wounds and offensive disrespects are hurled at me in hopes of defeatism and scarring. And my retaliation is never ready. I slink out into a restless sleep and awkward day, clearing my head, deep thinking and do research for inspiration on fighting a wooden bully. The resurfacing of my retribution comes firing back with thought and truth and defense, until my opponent has heard all it will hear and dares me.
From there I take battle in slinging and taping and throwing off-color remarks at this ***** for what seems like days, until I find the weak spot. And then, just pummel. Continue and repeat with a variety of similar strokes. This is when it gets worn out and I can see progress.
Like a beam of golden light. The pressure to finally usurp and overthrow all that has distracted me, is rolled out like a red carpet until the throne is visible. With violent blacks slung up top and lower, all flavors of blue bashed in the ribcage, muddy brown and ash around the knees and lower. And all over, a melting custard of crimson red drips erratic around this terrorizing yet pleading to just finish off this piece of wood or cloth. Covered in a multitude of cheap shots, unprofessional swatches, gorgeous strokes, and derivatives, we wipe the dust and tears and blood from our eyes and finally my opponent yields, and I am congratulated on another battle well fought.

"You don't always win", the board transfers
"Many have been left undefeated and unfinshed, stay humble you're learning wisdom and patience"

These words ring with echoing sound. On my walk home, my painted and smeared, ripped body and mind contemplative of all lessons and struggles, I long to tell Annie about the war I just had.
Will she listen...?

When you start as an artist, people assume,
that talent begins when you pick up the pencil,
how wrong they were to think that beginning,
was the beginning of my artistic thought-process.

Every bricks texture on the wall, appealed me,
the textures feel different, it's strangely addicting,
when the television light flashes into your face,
media inspires, media creates.

I was born with a wire attached to my brain,
but I can still unplug and refresh myself again.

For art is all around in different shapes and forms,
whether you agree or not - I love it all.