Notes upon Seeing a Jackson Pollock Retrospective on Mushrooms
painting happens
in the space and time
between painter and canvas
the painting is but a memory of the artwork
life is a beast that man civilizes
behind the bars of theory
people threw rocks at windows of the soul
rorschach tango
graffiti on the central nervous system
supernova totem pole
you see what you want to see
you make the most of nothing
myth is carved from anger
and symbol sculpted from chance
a painter accused of witchcraft
finds his reflection in the primordial cauldron
navigating cracks in the psyche
we looked into the deep
from our boat of reason
we tumble into a crevasse
of our collective subconscious
and drown in a personal unknown
animals crawl from the sludge
exactitude replaced by emotion
science by feeling
autumn never comes arbitrarily
plus is never present without minus
the rhythm without the music
the way the chirping of crickets
and the hum of passing cars is raw
it’s human to manipulate
the rhythm into music
and give the images meaning
a beginning and an end
what made the universe decide to sing?
the word was a single hum
that grew into a symphony
the notes clustered together forming chords
following a natural attraction to one another
the ensuing density of this interaction
created matter
from which all else was built
frequencies become flesh
the many is the one
variety is supreme
the creator is the sustainer
a mythic snarl in the darkness
a primal scream in the modern age
everyone searches for a story in the music
he finds a face
a wolf
a god
a belief
in the rotted bone
of an unknown animal
pounding visible rhythm on the canvas
the universe
is a woman
dancing
comet lips
swirling galaxies on her shoulder
black holes in her hair
the cosmos in a bikini
specters swirl around the earth mother
terrible in her singular unchallenged glory
tribal breasts and pitchfork vagina
pot-bellied men holding flags in the inferno
danced around her in a primitive mating ritual
phallic demons crowding the jazz bar
left handprints on the infinite
paint is suspended in mid-air
we recognize
the dynamic power of its potential
stabbing naked the rages of hell
darkly troubled sexual fantasy
and connotations of myth
the wizard
conjures demonic celebration
with his wand
paint is flung like casting spells
a sorcerer
battles the demons of his mind
and the wreckage sings the tale
crescendos burn like acid
time beholds the symphony of its being
heated debates in a language no one speaks
currency of a country no one is from
the cosmos watches us watching it
the ground beneath my feet
looks a million miles away
the air conditioner whispers my name
and i can hear thoughts
in the space between words
i could smell something burning in my past
everyone made comments
but no one stopped to help
probing the personal unconscious
nothing was anything
until it was something else
everyone searches for a story in the music
they force a narrative in the abstraction
the density of line has musical scale
layer upon layer of rewrites and renovations
a universe in every fleck of dust
evil looms in the shadows of beauty
demons leave a record of their passing
the canvas is fed like a wild animal
a gessoed bandage for his bleeding psyche
beard of fire
mask of ice
children make indian war cries
when asked to describe the image
fear is splattered on the loneliness
the heart cries black blood
explosions in the soul
leave puddles on perception
a spilled soul
the blank mind is laid out to be stained
by the experiences of life
a fleeting moment is captured
and frozen in a state of orgasm
life and death are co-dependent
sound can’t be heard without silence
hide your secrets in a box
and bury it
in the womb of a moon-lit road
the end of the world was led to its seat
like an old lady late for the movie
chickenshit bastards
admitted they feared the devil
they don’t understand
the aesthetics of rot
the principles of decay
to decay is divine
truth has no hierarchy
i’m reluctant
to answer the luminosity with dogma
but...
creation is the disintegration
of the original oneness
fragmenting the unity of nature
into countless limited forms
creation of our world
is the self-limitation
of the transcendent
a fragile psyche
glued together
with cigarettes and paint