jackson pollock threw paint
around like a muscatel wino tossing his cookies on the
corner of ninth and who-gives-a-shit
knowing no one would dig the deeper meaning
slinging paint
on canvas
not giving a good god damn what
people thought
or said
lingering in intuition
lounging in emotion
orgasmic organic
compulsively careless
kinetic karma king on the ragged edge
totally wasted on the dregs of his own disappointment
every day he slang the blues blacks and reds
torn between the gutter and the glory
guiltlessly guilelessly godlessly
turning battle fatigue into jazzed-up joy
surreptitiously superstitiously suspiciously
turning out portraits of gods and demons
dancing in his head
nattering about in his heart
conjuring who-knows-what in his soul
screeching and singing and speaking in tongues
eagerly earnestly effortlessly
turning out hyperanimated visions of eternal turmoil
so endlessly extraordinarily effective
you stopped
and stared
torn between the sewer and salvation
succulent satisfaction and endless emptiness
divine devastation and demonic delivery
the tyranny of taboos torn to shit
like atlanta after grant
smoldering shattered silent
hyperoptic hyperbolic hyperotic
luxuries
extemporaneous
duplicities
non-negotiable
superficialities
yielding
to
charisma
so jackson pollock threw paint
every day
somehow hoping to find release
or
a little bit of peace
