My son died on November 13, 2010.
Soon after Gabriel’s death, I became obsessed with expressing the loss of my child through many mediums in art and poetry. In late 2010, I began drawing in color using chalk pastels. My works began swiftly to breach the boundaries of what I knew then as art. In February, 2011, I discovered mail art; the practice of exchanging art with other artists through the postal system. Here I began slowly, creating a new work every day; some watercolors, some drawings, some collages. It was a booming period for my personal creativity.
I had been a self-taught poet for more than ten years when his death came upon our household. But I neglected poetry for my expression until the loss of a muse in 2012. By that time, I had obtained quite a measure of fame through both the mail art medium, as well as in online circles through repeat censorship of my work. After the breakup with Ana, my muse for many months, I disappeared into a world of words; determined to reach her once again through persistent reflection of the depth of loss that I felt by her disappearance. I opened my proverbial mouth and expressed loss in such extreme verbosity; never have I enumerated my sufferings in such extreme measure before.
In the time since, I have floundered between poetry and visual art, occasionally combining the two. But it wasn’t until recently that my poems began to deteriorate into more non-sense than sense. I’ve become attuned to regurgitation of words in volume which have no apparent overall aesthetic which coheres to a greater poem. Instead, I lack in cohesion and excel in verbosity. This I refer to as antipoetry. It makes no clever stake, nor does it leave a polished taste in the mouth. It is intentionally disrupted in form through dissociative bubbles of nonsense.
I do not profess smooth language or art.
Instead, my work is bumpy and should be taken out of context and interpreted without absolutist meaning. This is the measure of a neopsalm: to inject vocabulary assering Christendom, without asserting guilt, blame, or judgment. These are left for the interpreter to find meaning of their own and make their own importance, word by word and line by line.
I converted to Catholicism through the teachings of a handful of the saints in October, 2017. Since then I have stripped myself of despair and loss in poetic expression, and warmed myself towards a more religious bent, while not completely abandoning my previous poetic intents. Eroding the former with the latter.
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