my goal isn’t the louvre or the fuckin tate or any museum. it’s to be printed on gas station sex pills. or on a billboard next to a personal injury attorney. or to be sold next to fuckable plush snuggies on QVC. my goal is to be the asphalt we walk on.

create nothing, consume everything.

i'm fairly certain these are unique to me.

find absolute joy in creation even if the subject is unbearable. find relics of yourself in dried paint and blinking cursors. leave behind blood in the snow that’ll be covered by next winter. but at least something poured from the wound. and the white turned red for a season.

most of the things we make are not grails nor museum bound. and are mostly undeserving of a passing glance. but if those brush strokes and words can help someone for a moment. they’re important anyway. so long as the creation is formed from love and not empty commoditization.

bring back the meta where a dude’s entire personality is just wearing shorts in the winter. “i’m not even cold is the funny part,”

good meat.

when people ask about my artistic inspiration. A father teaching his son to grill on an antique lamp      A tiger made of marbles devouring a flesh flower  A record player spinning the sounds of human hair         A glass trampoline A lamb smeared with mint jelly gumdrops    A gambler losing everything      An abandoned campsite with a dead comedian     A swimming pool full of pulled teeth  A rat servant reciting names of people who had died in the war       A mason jar of circus peanuts      The best Christmas tree A hot air balloon fueled by the cigarette smoke of sinners        A tiny spider city An owl with the face of a hound and the body of an ex-lover  An unopened letter from 50 years ago       A boy knitting an oversized quilt A seafood tower of Polaroid pictures A nail technician giving a manicure to a blade of grass      A bottle of Jack Daniels trying to save its family A watermelon full of cactus needles     An ice sculpture rosary    A hospital bed       A television set

it gets worse.

kill your colonel.

kfc.

last week dyor harvested "we bought fireworks from a man with no thumbs," an early 2021 work regarding the loss of flesh for things we love that provide fading joy. today, he is immortalized as a meat squiggle. full spectrum of horrible rot and other tentacles of animal parts.

good meat.

infinite derivative.

only 20 dreads listed. love watching listings deteriorate like dreams. sitting in front of a keyboard as your hands grow stagnant and maimed under the weight of inconsequence. folks realizing this collection is the story of all of us being forgotten. art as a novel.

This CryptoPunk just sold for 3m USD

won’t be in marfa but all of these things remain fine activities since I did a month there a few years back. spend an entire day getting drunk and writing poetry at the pool dancing like a fucking idiot to a honky tonk band at the pony getting stoned and watching the marfa lights speculating on if you’d been abducted by the marfa lights eating as much bordo as humanly possible walking home drunk and smoking a cigarette wondering why things didn’t change anymore rabidly exchanging stories of depravity with a man who claims he can speak to coyotes doom metal moves the sand like a conductor at an orchestra being overcome sadness and realizing how much you actually love your regular life only consuming pulverized vegetables at little juice bar drinking lukewarm lonestars with the local cowboy horse tour guide outside of dollar general the deviled eggs at margarets the breakfast sandwiches at sandys a paperback book that you keep in your back pocket and sometimes read a visit to a local hell hole called not starbucks full of bone structures and clogged toilets keeping the gallery open while working to get a hug from an elderly woman who wonders if you’re doing alright cherishing silence spending a day wondering if what you’re making means anything at all or wondering if you’re become a watered down verison of yourself or if the condensation on a modelo bottle is offering salvation cry on the way out of town. because you’ll miss what you found there. and what you left. some or none of these will help or hurt. existing like morsels of bread or piles of shit. to be eaten or stepped on.

good meat.

crazy to think this book did more to onboard retail then the cumulative efforts of every single art historian in history.

nfts.