Category Archives: memo

holy ghosts

in the end, we are all just holy ghosts

lone, holy, haunted ghosts wanting to be seen, felt

if anyone were to have thoughts or draw conclusions about this ghost, about my collection of words, photos, ephemera, art, altars, or the microcosmic worlds i’ve built — now, or when i’m dead

— in the end, and at the beginning,
it is and was,
all, for me to better understand

my Self, for myself, by my self

as well, to understand my relationship to others, to the world, to the Earth – the pain and beauty of it all, and to my creativity, the act of creating — and to existence itSelf

no one else is essential to interact with,
interpret, interrogate or validate any of it

the imperative in my work and my art is not to be known or understood by another — even though, even when, that exquisitely rare experience occurs – it can conjure deep feelings of true homecoming or true love /both, actually/

being seen, or being seen as creative, evocative, provocative, nouveau, derivative, debased or talentless is wholly different than being known and understood by someone

and although communion, consummation, and collaboration in experiencing, creating, or releasing art can be gratifying, challenging, inspiring and evolutionary,

i must always remember:

all my collaborators are ghosts; i am my own, lone, Earthly muse; i Am my audience of one

everyone else is collateral advantage

“in the end, you will find [only] yourself at the beginning”


ghosts: me, Frida Kahlo, Agave & The Moon

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memo to a particular poet

i am going to bed, now
at 7:08
to lessen the ache
of being awake

this is a poem
this is the business
of us artists
this is “business correspondence”

inform a collaborator
a coworker – if you will
your passwords and processes
before taking those pills

my corazón has nearly bled-out
migrating across my torso, my limbs,
and my crown
settling into my cornflower eyes
bloodshot with or without drops and disguise

the weight of this goddamned red muscle
i’m so fucking heavy-hearted
this cursed organ’s still goin’
my sweetest, singular escape, now aborted

the only thing i can do right, right now
is to sleep
the only thing i can do wrong, right now
is to think

(who should i send this memo to?
– no one, if not, to you)