I want to be an artist, the end. Period.

Without hope or agenda, but with mission.

I want to embark on some exaggerated internal expedition,
an existential journey through a desert with a companion I adore;
a muse whom I will ultimately despise
when I realize with real eyes that my muse is just a metaphor.

I want to be an architect, a welding ink exaggerator,
a spoken word photographer,
a sculpting sound biographer,
I want to be an engineer, an acrylic film contortionist,
a symphonic chef receptionist,
an electronic sketch perfectionist,
I want to be an artist.

Clothes stained by the remnants of my work, my words --
built offshore like nuclear reactors
that contain nothing if they can't contain themselves,
explosive vocal chords emitting biochemical sound spills
into darkrooms pregnant with thoughts of swollen wombs
giving birth to verbal children born with certain cancers,
cured only by the love of a needle-tongue stitching wounds
with words that can heal pain without anesthesia
but can not cure a question with an answer.

Because art is unlimited in its speech,
transcribed and translated, it knows no language but truth,
never outlived or outdated, holds firmly to its roots
and still it reserves the right to say
nothing. At all.

I want to be the belly, the beast and the tooth,
to be a painter performer professional sleuth,
to be lost in a desert thirsty for youth,
I want to be Dali, Edison, Tesla and Ruth.

I want to be a Pinter.
Pause.

My art speech photographic memory is a correctional facility
that captures thought, amplifies it and shows it how to be not afraid,
a zipper to expose that on which eyes have not yet been laid,
a weapon to threaten the existence of disbelief,
a bullet to backfire, lash out, kill switch and end all doubt,
a cipher to encode the incredulous lessons
that could not be lessened by anything lost in translations.

That art could be a map lacking any real sense of direction.

Lest we forget what we learn when we're lost,
how the possession of less is not equivalent to loss,
while the possession of more offers potential to lose.

Because art has no reason, knows why and speaks truth.
It breeds culture, speaks volume and break rules.
I want to be John Grierson,
making creative treatments of actuality.
But I would have died in nineteen-seventy-two,
sad but true, it's so sad to be an artist,
they all die before they're recognized,
they leave before the paint is dry,
another coat to rectify,
to hide the past,
to kill some time,
I just want to be an artist
because art, like I, can not be defined.

12/30/2008

Author's Note: I believe in ghosts & other mysterious things. I believe that love is just a word that lacks real definition.

Posted on 12/30/2008
Copyright © 2025 Frankie Sanchez