Selected works available as prints.

A lone crosswalk to nowhere, stranded in a nicotine-colored fog. The red man glows like a bureaucratic hallucination, ordering obedience at the edge of the world. No cars. No people. Just silence, damp grass, and the absurd certainty that nobody is getting across today.

Out of the rotgut haze, a crooked little island claws its way into view-like some hallucination you didn’t order but can’t shake. Clear your skull of the static, the noise, the goddamn clutter, and suddenly-bam-something sharp and dangerous takes shape in the void. A thought. Not polite, not safe… but alive.

You drop in a single gold coin, pull the lever with greasy anticipation, and out spits a prepackaged slice of happiness-cheap, immediate, and just convincing enough to keep you coming back for another hit.

Crystal goblets scattered across a lace-draped battlefield, catching sunlight like evidence after a beautiful crime. Spring blooms overhead, indifferent to the wreckage. Somewhere between a garden party and a nervous breakdown, the afternoon tipped its hand and left the glasses where they fell.

Sometimes the thing lurking just beyond the fence-the great glittering outside they sell you as salvation-isn’t paradise at all. Sometimes it’s the same madness in a different suit, the same wolves with cleaner teeth. You push through expecting revelation and find only another flavor of trouble… and that realization, brutal as it is, teaches you something.

Nothing like a front-row seat to the spectacle-right up against the heat and the madness, where the whole twisted circus unfolds in high definition. No distance, no safety buffer-just you and the raw, unfiltered chaos splashing across your senses like gasoline on an open flame.

Every now and then, the world slides something shiny across the table-an opportunity, raw and twitching-and you, in your infinite, beautifully flawed chaos, grab it wrong and send the whole thing crashing into oblivion. But somewhere in the wreckage, between the smoke, there’s a lesson grinning back at you.

A gutted refrigerator marooned in an empty lot, surrounded by glittering shards and bad decisions. The machine has surrendered, its guts exposed to the afternoon sun. Somewhere, the American Dream broke down, leaked coolant, and was abandoned before anyone thought to clean up the mess.

Mirror, mirror on the wall-what twitching fraud stares back through the cracked silver? Some feral prophet of bad decisions, half-lost in vanity and chemical revelation, asking the only question that ever mattered: who’s driving this doomed machine?