After seeing, Jackson Pollock is….
I am not one to wait. My pitchfork hand points to the sun. Incredulous
being—a laughing eyebrow for a tick, my shadow a crab-eyed
specter lifeless on the ground. Her mannequin head bends
beneath me on a alter of promises. I am a Sheppard,
she a ghost under waist-high grain. My scythe rusts with saliva
against the contours of her hair. She does not bleat. The only thing
heavier is the envy of the clouds.
I cannot stop the onlookers, wear their flesh or anoint
their crowns. Only bask in their ridicule, jealous pleas
of their excitement. Their obese children, erect cocks
for tongues, inflate with infatuation. Extended and wet.
Gruesome and vigilant.