Step by step, and little by little,
he’s gathering dung, the scarab-beetle.

Noises he’ll make, and paw the air,
a trick well-known to the conjurer.

Over lime and dusty ground
with feet together he tries to plough.

There is nothing that cannot be used,
straw, spent matches, salt and lust.

Να ψαχουλεύεις, να ζητιανεύεις, να ζουλάς τη μνήμη σου
ν’ ανασύρει τη βυθισμένη στο χρόνο μορφή του,
μια μορφή σκεπασμένη με σκοτάδι.
«Επειδή έτσι έπρεπε να γίνει» είπες.
«Επειδή έτσι έμαθες να λες» είπα, κλαίγοντας.

Thou Art. I am art, you are art, All is art. We create and are thus re-created in the Unfolding Image as we reveal and are re revealed by the human camera—our inner eye—a living lens…rolling, focusing, capturing and re-membering the moving picture. Images that move us. Images and impressions which leave their imprint, which spark the imagination and nurture the spirit of expression. We are, after all, a shining miracle, a mirror with a memory. We share the same DNA with stars—the stuff that dreams are made of.

What can anyone say that has not already been said. Inspiration, interrogation, and self-reflection are part of art making, whatever kind one makes and are they not part of the creative process?

goes out looking
for instants.

It wants to find
more time
to cheat
the inevitable.

Outside, the buildings sway
like wheat fields
and the pick-up trucks roar
past the lumber yard
and down the darkening highway

Sweet rain on old growth sweeps past in fanning sheets,
this morning each veil brings joy, like someone strumming
mist releasing song, falling to branch above hummingbird
dashing in, out, grabbing nectar in the wet, wet, music.
Dashing in, out, grabbing nectar in the wet, wet, music.
Mist releasing song, falling to branch above hummingbird
this morning, each veil brings joy, like someone strumming.
Sweet rain on old growth sweeps past in fanning sheets.

You hang me on the hanger
of your anger

like da Vinci’s triangle
and vinci is vanquish

and vanquish is
like anguish

The changes that came overnight were toxic to my system. The new leader made me feel I was being poisoned to the bone. Being near his tower made me faint. Time to go back to Brooklyn.Going back to the place I was born, I believed, I would be safe. I would be with my own. 
The first driver was from Congo. He picked me up to take me over the Brooklyn Bridge the first day of the new regime. I was shell-shocked, in a state of disbelief and terror that made me ill. The driver made no bones about his antipathy toward the new leader. 
“What will he do?” I asked.

I am far away
from the market stalls over the Neretva
and no one recognizes me here
or knows that eternal summer reigns
over my childhood. 
I walk through the market. 
I’m dressed in a blue shirt
whose song no one understands.

As the world collapses
Singing stops everything from falling apart.
My wife walks through the living room,
Humming to herself, a hum
That slowly erupts into a song,
Rapturing the quiet with her grace
Her song pierces the rancid world
Together, places light before dark,
Dark before absence, the song she sings
Pierces the fresh scent of silence,
A presence at the edge of my yearning.

The place I started was
not the outside,
not the pathway,
not the door

It was the perch, 
the living,
the refuge,
the heights. 

It was the place
to observe the boats,
the sea,
the creases of the waves,
changing each instant

Art holds importance to humanity as it bridges divides uniting the unlikeliest of minds. There are no rules to art. So few people push their creativity and even less call themselves an artist. Like anything in life, all forms of art require practice. That practice teaches and enhances life for the artist. Art is balance. The more creative I am, the better everything is.

Art is how I navigate the in-between spaces—between worlds, identities, and environments. My paintings are rooted in nature, marked by winged creatures that move through utopian landscapes. These wings represent resilience and adaptation: the ability to thrive in air, land, or water. They speak to anyone who has called different places home.
Culture offers the context, the shared memory that shapes how we move and evolve. The creative process is where I listen—where instinct and emotion meet image and form. It’s how I make sense of the quiet truths that can’t be spoken.