I like art that eats my eyes, that feeds on my baby-blues like a bird plucking something juicy and wriggling from the forest floor. When art takes a part of me and regurgitates it to its young, I know I am alive: art’s bitch, art’s victim, art’s prey, but not carrion. Art doesn’t eat the dead. It passes over the anethesized hordes in search of something red, raw, and pulsing. Art seeks out the live ones. Leaves us stuck and dumbfounded, playfully in tears. It carries us to the peaks of tomorrow before dropping us like someone else's one-night stand. It leaves us empty and ready to fill. Leaves us longing and forgetful of the now.

I want to be taken by unique thoughts and brazen, heart-thumping imagery. I'm tired of the lollipop idols, Lords of those self-proclaimed rebels who all look and act alike and chant like locust-mouthed monks; a hymn of their own artistic praise. They can keep that recycled peacock frond mask they wear to cover their drooping artistic phallus. I reject the tapeworm. I want art. If this club is where we dwell, then your soul is already sold for 30 pieces of silver and your art is dead as blown dust. Let the kiddies play and huddle together for comfort. I want art.

Let the fakers face lift their looks to fit yesterdays fads, bend their sagging skin and styles for 15 minutes of drone-swallowed fame. Just say no those who demand merely flesh or flash. Art whispers to me the promise of a world that is uncooked, deep, absurdly rich and sweet jagged and soft, and itchingly disturbing. You can keep your glitzy jellyfish dolls. I want art. Cheap, wrought with discord, misery, urgency, mania, charm, poise, street-smart antics, and the dreamers’ eternal vision that burns our ass to the point of combustion. I renounce silicone, denounce the scalpel and embrace subcutaneous fat in all its ticklish forms.

I want it old. I want it new. I want it tattered, tarnished, sloppy, wet, scornful, modest and pure. Most of all, I just want it. Bright, dark, orange and red. Sienna, cyan, burnt ocher. Oil and plastic and aerosolized. Smashed, sculpted, scenic, snubbed. I want the canvas to bleed with clear vision and drip with sticky thought. I want the walls to shake with mirth. I want to hear the genius dysfunctionals scream at me. I invite their scorn and welcome their folly. Line me up against a wall, blindfold me and stick a Camel in my mouth. I want the volleys to come quick: rat-tat-tat. You’re going to see me as I fall to the ground. my eyes lighting up one last time, staring at the pretty pattern of the ricochets