What a sound mind that lies on his own
On hand
On top of shyness
Is this a primitive method or just a political issue?
Welcome to my prison gallery...

I burned our
old photographs,
it fell down
like dried leaves
in the autumn
The classic
gallery of our
love that was
once fascinating
became a
tedious one
The once white
walls and
clean corners
Are now dusty
and dark
The perfectly
carved frames,
and perfect
shots
became dull
and lifeless
You left me
knowing that
I won't survive
alone inside this
***** walls
Picture me
in your mind
And you'll see
the saddest photo
there will ever be

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.