Art is a sacred form of expression. My art is made of words. My words come from a deep place in my being. I gather words. I hunt for words on the streets, in cafés, in books, on the bark of a tree, and in my dreams. I string words together with commas and periods as if tying small, invisible knots between pearls. Sometimes my sentences are raw and hard, sometimes aged and soft.
Language is my landscape of expression. My words are my skin, my history, my struggles, my wounds, my love, my hate. I collect images, color and stretch and transform words into metaphors, layer each word with another word, with repetition and pause. I create sound, sometimes riff an improvisational line of jazz.
I write poetry. I write prose. I write prosepoems. My writing style—like my writing practice—is a hybrid of linear lines and a fluid, elliptical flow.
I come to the blank, white space as if it were a canvas. I paint an image. I write to go deep, to awaken the subconscious, to write myself into and out of a deep well, to be pulled out of myself to someplace else. My work is transformative. Sometimes I dwell in myth. I write about life and death. I convey loneliness, the emotions of being human, sadness and contentment, the ugly and beautiful, the sublime, the divine.
I lie in dark places and come up for air. Everything I write is written in my voice.