After Seeing Jackson Pollock

 

 

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.

 

 

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