And who is artist?

I was told before, dollar for painting

(a hundred for creation)

I don't believe that anymore

(never really did)

We are the architects, playing to the open field of the underworld to realities

(an artist with an 'e')

thick conglomerates of sticky color for fingertips

assimilations of rarities in a crown of words

(and I wear it every day)

I walk with a liquid transcription in my mind, and a step before another

planned to exist.

It's the attraction to memory-movement-making

Paste against palette, mouth against ambiance

a sensuality, that goes beyond knowing

and enters the realm of divine.

We are what we are- and what we are is

liquid- little tapers of movement,

beautiful movement.

Even the naked, aspiring snakes of Adam and Eve

begins here.

And who is artist?

I promise you this

They'll never pay you to enough to know.