there is no abstract. or figurative. or method. or revolution. or artists or collectors for that matter. and most of what we make or acquire will be mercifully forgotten in the puncture holes distributed by dull bayonets from a war that was never fought. buried in a sea of premium pornography or suffocated by the listless novacaine drip leaking from an unhealing hang nail. but there is meat. and flies. there is always meat. there is that. and flies that satisfy their carnal urges in the pulverized existence of a beast born to bleed and feed. these strokes document the joyful moments in the slaughterhouse. the routine passings. the hooves and snouts and skin and bones and cherished memories becoming mere runoff sweat into the drains to lubricate the purposeless gears again. there is comfort in creation, even if its destruction.