Breathing is the act of life, of being.
Smoking is an act of death, of being.
Both are present and progressive.

This one is for the being.

It’s for the progressive dialog
between the you, me and the we,
the ooofs, woofs and the hopes.

Anything starts somewhere; otherwise
it would not exist. This installation,
you and me, we. We’re all conditioned
the moment it, me, you or we, start.

I was a born male. My phalluses are
pregnant with ideas, thoughts and hopes.
I wanted to be a dad, become a we
to a me. But my dad is dead.

Anything ends somewhere; otherwise
it would not have existed. This installation,
you and me, we. We’re all conditioned
the moment it, me, you or we, end.

I believe that life is in the gray.
One’s life borders are set in blacks
and whites but life and the living are
within endless shades of gray.

I was born in a land with endless
blacks and whites. Only after an
ocean apart and a decade of wonders
I’ve learned the love of gray and
fallen in love with its being.

Gray questions one’s life rules,
their black lines and white borders.
Gray is an oxymoron. It is black. It
is white. And anything in between.
Gray is the course of life.

At the end of every end there’s a one,
then two, then some more and then
more than a few. At the end there’s
always a me.

At the beginning of every one there’s
always the quest, the dialog to seek
the he, the she, the we.
Man kind.

At the beginning of every we there’s
always a match, then a scratch, a light,
a bright. Then a fire, a smoke
and finally, a box.

Breathing is the monotonic, effortless
consumption of air, specifically
oxygen, that fuels the metabolic
system that generates life.
Keeps our being.

Life is the consumption of beings,
of living, of things that we experienced,
digested or washed out, pipped or
pooped, peeped or popped.

The continuous breathing, the burn
of life, is consumed, smoked until it
ceases to exist. Done and gone.
Then tossed like a butt.

There is no one Alice, no one prince,
one white rabbit, but there’s certainly
a clock, and it is ticking rabbits.
Ticktock, ticktock.

So at the height of fifty-something
grayish years old, I’ve learned that
it always starts and ends, ends and
starts with breathing and being.

Restart somewhere, breathe it in,
breathe it out, give it life, a being.
We’re here for a moment,
Here it starts. Again.

Breathing is the act of life, of being.
Smoking is an act of death, of being.
Both are present and progressive.

This one is for the being.

It’s for the progressive dialog
between the you, me and the we,
the ooofs, woofs and the hopes.

The artwork is for sale in three
formats & sizes:

To my father.