I am a surrealist because I’m mad.
I’m a confessional because I’m called to transmit my madness.
I am assemblage because all my transmissions are handmade, die-cut, palimpsest and prism
I’m chopped and screwed track
I’m a caul baby
I am the barbaric beatific
I am Not Manet’s Type
I’m bright peeled rind
In my mirror is Remedios Varo’s dried blood red
I am a poet because, like Rimbaud’s voyant, I understand that it is only through a fundamental disorientation and dislocation of the senses that one can be a seer.
I am a poet because unlike Rimbaud’s voyant, I am not in search of the new or unknown but ever reaching for what is right in front of me.
I will, in honor of Patron Saint Bob Kaufman, recite and compose aloud—the permeable borders between myself and those whose work I covet near-indiscernible: a polyphony
Said Threadgill, you’ve got to dance to play it
I will resist the temptation of cleverness.
I am (mostly) allergic to conceit
I am a haptic being—not touching but grasping for, at: embodied vibration
I am tuned, tapped in
I am listening