Saturday, October 24, 2015

October 24

Jackson Pollock's Autumn Rhythm


  1. Jackson Pollock's Autumn Rhythm

    With a drip, and a drizzle
    Pollock flows in his artwork
    in his mind, dreaming of
    abstract design

    As we dance to the rhythm
    with streams of blacks and
    browns like he understood the
    painting to become his vision

    The patchwork drips
    and the melody
    rendition he paints
    the catastrophic

    folds in a gentle array
    reminiscent of his form
    as we know not what to
    believe, yet we know little

    beyond the pain
    men have endured
    Ego performed in the
    light we see as

    suffering of man
    longing to free
    the insanity of the
    abstract into a reality

    of the darkened mind
    As we hold on to what
    is real like Jackson Pollock
    saw in the reversed field

    a better side than
    what is normal
    He could see the
    obverse angle

    the thread of pain
    causing the blend of
    suffering like the
    changes of the world

    as we are
    outside looking in
    gazing at the drips
    and the drizzles

    1. Daryl, fantastic. I think this is my favorite of your collection this month!

    2. I feel all this thought and movement too, thanks Daryl, for the translation.

  2. Wild confusion
    Is this life
    Hardship and Hate
    Curtain shadow stories
    Secrets that

    Run jump and lie
    Swim fast or die
    Drones shooting by
    Money always dry
    Her eye.

    She was an artist
    Who knocked on your door
    Nurtured, endured
    Unlocked turmoil
    Melded gifts

    Her collage
    Angling shapes
    Your drops flying
    Find the good
    Reality obverse
    At last converse
    In peace.

  3. Life

    Sometimes creeping in the shadows
    other times screaming from mountain tops
    sometimes clean and fresh
    other times dark and full of filth
    sometimes straight and narrow
    other times as crooked as the devil's spine
    sometimes easy on the eyes
    other times too painful to watch
    sometimes filled with mystery
    other times so obvious it hurts
    sometimes it makes perfect sense
    other times it makes no sense at all
    sometimes you wish it would all end
    other times you pray for five more minutes
    sometimes you are the dancer
    sometimes you are the floor
    sometimes you backseat drive
    other times... you sit back and enjoy the ride

    1. There's something Jackson-Pollock-ish about this. Love it!

  4. This is a bit different. I love Pollock, I haven't quite found a way to balance out my opinion of him with how much I love Lee Krasner's work.

    On Lee Krasner, Brushwork and Contact, Courage

    Assault on the Solar Plexus 1961

    there is no loss
    of object
    the dimensions of the artwork have changed
    ex-changed themselves for the world
    but this paint has always hunger-
    looked at you, object
    hang-stretched between two scapula
    who owns you
    a blown mast, belly, mastiff
    and her wind-knuckles
    curled tight palm strike the intersection
    between: ribs, lower lungs, and the intestinal
    the black oil
    spray transfer to your wife beaten
    shirt—you viewer you
    canvas you
    object: Object
    if you can force
    the words
    out—there are no abstractions, only
    bad rhetorical charge
    the way
    there is no poverty
    but for the holder
    of the twice spent pay
    there is a taste to debt to melon
    ball boones
    farm: barn

    you loom
    over the flat on their back
    stretched huge
    skin—with a stick, turkey baster,
    brush—the whip
    which never touches you
    concretely leaves its mark
    interweave layers of the auto
    gnomic auto erotic
    until the world lowers herself
    into your uneducated mouth
    for you who claim you are free.
    Porcelain 1955

    smear human
    excremental brown bird-
    while streaking—and through the holes
    in this, rotting flesh
    a glimpse of
    thigh, blue
    every stockinged leg
    caulked and canvassed
    spackled but the light
    on the nearly concrete
    entire villages come off the pogrom—and your iron drunken
    of your car—I put the miracle in your mouth
    shown glinty smile the worlds
    ridges thrown by the great hydrogen vent
    this ether-table
    of a daybreak without a you.

    Imperative 1976

    each gash each
    closes options for the viewer
    sections collapse industries
    factories a salvo of horse-
    men it is difficult not to sense
    as time measures your eye
    through each plane a different land-
    chariots pulled by business-
    men falling from burning
    a single heel, red,
    strike blood caught in the wing-
    root of a lear-
    we of beak of dangled
    there is no depth
    no time
    and the horizontal
    plane swinging closed in the alligator
    neck line caught
    the cleavage of time and desire
    into the vertiginous
    plummet look
    or be sick

    on your way down
    there are uplifts
    cubist figurations gesturing for you
    to rise
    and look
    these closures
    these dislocations these
    of figures
    of soylent courage release you back to yourself
    in time, they lift
    each diagonal slash along a color
    tipped plane
    an index of reflection
    look back again through your auspex
    of picket fences
    and circling picket
    we all self-sentinel
    this central, this centered delta, firebird among grave kneeling

    1. Love that man. It's hard to write about these guys, but you did so and well!

  5. Jackson Pollock Autumn Rhythm

    I see it
    no, this alludes me
    can't see fall

  6. Brains are not hard and
    sliceable like on TV. They are a
    jumble like spaghetti with sauce
    covered by the dense tendrils of
    darkness drizzled over a spent future.
    It’s a mess that forever camouflages the
    playful lightness of our dreams and
    activities in the years before you
    shot yourself in my living room.