I'm staring down at my paintings and
letting them haunt me with the need
I wonder how long I can
self-obsess and claim humility at once
how long I can
fuck strangers and still stick a flag in 'naive'
I won't have an answer that's found
anywhere outside the canvas,
and that's what's keeping me away.
it's what's keeping me trading
1/3 sized replicas of moments
when i knew myself,
in the form of a sterile canvas
and a dirty art.
dropping down the drop cloth is the only way.
putting away the old, and walking up to
my first really blank canvas
(whatever that means);
letting the sight and sound
make itself known, and letting the conduit
be the only continuity.