The Ghost of Jackson Pollock

I find truth in my fingers and fidget until the meanings get tangled. I make stupid decisions. The decisions converge and gurgle the light which has splashed on an accordion. It isn’t a matter of properties so much as unities that divide and come together, divide and come together, until at last the volume in the room blossoms into Cossacks. Once sand always sand. I bombard the paper with words along the side of a mug of coffee with the Beatles on it. I am in a state of drifting, which is achieved by swinging on a trapeze of the imagination. Meaning has paths. Let the decisions be made by goldfish in England. I am plunging into pepper and salt I am prickly and heavily fleshed I am terrestrial and truant I am becoming a hairy pulsing example of the way a wheel turns.

It is wonderful that water has swimming in it. Swimming which is round, the way swimming was meant to be, aesthetic as a crawl. It is difficult to adapt to paint after summoning genies in words. The insistence is only natural in a pasture of buffalo. The spiritual unfolding of a moment is imposed by the stars and a singing goddess with fierce eyes. The simulation of fog is like throwing a yardstick at a guitar. French fries have already been a symptom. A spirit of tin is tumbling around in a limousine. I have a parrot on my head, astonishing and hypothetical. My intentions get lost along the way. Redemption is a jewel hanging from the throat. I think it was made to agree with the skin. I can wipe my lips with a napkin, but his does not solve the bend in the river, or the strength required to be honest. Honesty is a harrowing employment of nails and the eradication of control. Its attainment disturbs the hierarchy.

We are on a hunt for meaning. Generosity makes sense. So do chains and pulleys. Sometimes it is simple, like pouring water from a bottle, and sometimes the words represent themselves as words only, and the purpose of directing them toward meaning reeks of vanity and composition.

I am in a state of feathers and hear a waterfall. It is unpremeditated day, polished and cherry like a sideboard whose secrets are hidden in the top left drawer. I maintain consonants in the expansiveness of ghosts whose beliefs are scorched by reality. There is no burning but ice and dust and cans of paint in a reverie of feathers and fire. The artist at the edge of existence rips the knowledge of asphalt in half and floats into a state of light that isn’t electricity but muscle and feels the churning of testimony. The sky, full of bright blue air, is crushed like an insect and weighs four hundred pounds. It is all penetralia. Autumn cavorts in the street. It is immediately stabbed by a strong wind and the sky grows into itself and hoists itself up and blasts out a big dwelling of sticks and leaves called earth.

The ugly feelings are the fertile ones and in grammar the nerves attract words that lead to lyrical disasters that must be soaked in creosote and boiled down to a pulp. Qualifications gnaw on the bones of the poem. The air flirts with the nose. Poetry must be a maximum usurpation until wisdom arrives and blooms into a monumental curl of frostbite. The easel is arranged by the window and accumulates itself into a joke. The city stirs into life and the ghost of Jackson Pollock scours a pan with the ugly feelings he has earned by crying an agonizing gravy on a surface of limitless grace.