Curriculum Vitae

You are alive, and that is your art.
Your very first memory and your very last will fill pages of an epic, like Gilgamesh, Ulysses, Huckleberry Finn, and Jesus Christ.
Fate be your pseudonym; divine from what’s to be the marble relief of your greatest battles— against hubris and humility, doldrums and temptations, spilt milk and scraped knees.
Every step you take was once a spark of imagination that coaxed your brush to canvas,
“Let’s try this color!”
Making murals of Friday nights, frescos in the chapel halls.
Frida and Basquiat and Pollock in your soul, collecting stains on your outstretched canvas, splashed and bespeckled with inky, indelible time.
Take a look around you.
This is your gallery.
These are your blurbs.
This is your oeuvre with an exhibition statement that yearns to make some sense of a pièce de résistance so desperately content with being just to be.
Because you are Miles blowing in the wind, Coltrane on the sax taking giant steps.
Mixolydian or the backdoor seventh to your late and tired nights?
Your fingers decide what your ears imagine, and the song goes on and on.
So dance a little, and splatter a lot, and write yourself into a cliffhanger.
Then let it go and fall into an ending yet to start, with hope that it will thrill and awe your captivated heart.
Because you are alive, goddammit.
And life is your fucking art.