The Alzheimer's Chronicles

I Am My Own Art Movement

I am my own art movement
Abandoned to my own devices
I paint with dirt, spit and cum.
My private grotesqueries
on display, under your nose, in your face,
   in your space.
Uncovered, disheveled, unclean, unwanted,
   undesired. Undiscovered.
Until now. Here you are forced to look,
   or look away. Your nose turns up in disgust.
You could have helped me. But you denied that
   I needed help.
You could have intervened.
   But you chose not to.
You could have listened. Really listened.
   But you chose not to hear.
So, here I am. Twisted beauty
   full of love. A bristle-cone pine,
roots founded in the cracks of
   ancient stone, painting my dreams
on the wind.

I am my own art movement.

I am my own art movement
My art is the expression of my soul’s experiences.
My art is lonely—so lonely—that it cannot breathe
My art is heartbroken again and again.
My art dances to rhythms that can only be
   heard and felt by me.
My dance is the staccato, broken, torn
   lyrical and silent.
My brush flows across the canvas
   using paint for tears, for blood,
for crushed dreams and loss…

I am my own art movement
Crying « Dada » when he has gone
   away, so long ago. I reach for « Mama »
and find only thorns and brambles.
Constructing strange realities from
   the found objects in my daily movements.
Tearing canvases apart, covering them
   in boogers of paint; I prick myself on the
   aluminum screening and razor wire
I use to shape the images of my
   dreams—the silhouettes of my
nightmares.