Burning Landscape, by Jackson Pollock

The ships break through the sunrise now—splitting the horizon, a phoenix rising. It lunges towards the sky, bobbing up and down atop the ethereal plane. The ground is nowhere to be seen, hidden beneath the multi colored haze.

Streaks of wind materialize from behind the wall of whiteness, clawing through. “We must stay steady,” someone says. “Look at all the clouds.”

We pass a waterfall that sparkles—pouring down souls from heaven to earth, or rather back up again. Red smoke falls, and raindrops rise. But we go on, maneuvering past the spots of blood, liquid lines of desperation.

Far above, figures of swans and dark men emerge and disappear, criss-crossing to and fro around the pane of canvas.

“Sometimes, nothing emerges from something. Everything comes from nothing. And nothing is everything.”

So it is, and the captain dives and floats dreamily off into the distance, caressed by a bitter green fog.

Such is the rapture of being alive—our necks craned upwards towards the beautiful streaks of something intensely real. We do not need to know what they are, except that they are indeed real, untouchable, undeniable, blessed with the luminescence and fluidity to be vivid and stunning. And they drip in slow motion downwards like vines wandering in search of light, like us searching aimlessly for love. We break through the fog now. What is there?

“Land! The illusion of land! The mist of unreal gems, hopeless meaning!”

Men, women, children, dogs, cats, cows—all crying, sobbing incredible tears that flood the sky, splattering our vision with a film of obscurity. We can’t even see the maenads reaching out anymore, as we drown in our dream of infinite sorrows. The whispers of deadness, fleeting, bubbling, forming faintly colored silhouettes.

There is laughter in the distance. The colors shift into their places, into regular lines—we sail on, riding the curvature of a temporary rainbow, watching the world burn with passion.

Margins

I bought a little old book:

with wrinkled edges and yellowed pages,

its ink just a little bit faded.

In its margins on page 63,

in cherished dark blue pen

in the corner of the page,

was a note that said,

“I love you.”

I smiled and ran my fingers across that note,

and looked for any other messages—

but alas, there were none,

and I never finished the book.

The Little Ball

A rolling popping little ball came skipping down the stairs,

And shat on the floor while laughing, squealing—

Merrily merrily we fall and get up and smile!

Chanted it with glee. Wonderful wonderful!

There was a snowstorm that day, said the weatherman,

Though of course the ball wouldn’t know it.

And neither did the weatherman, really,

But the homeless guy did, really, and froze his fingers

Right off onto the fresh, soft powder.

Delightful! said the little ball, in response to a TV show.

It’s about some fat people trying to lose weight,

With a really fit woman cheering them on as they

Sweated and loomed over the exercise equipment.

The little ball is green.

The little ball is blue.

The little ball is mean.

The little ball loves you.

In the evening the little ball sang a nursery rhyme

That sounded awfully like Humpty-Dumpty,

Except in the end, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men

Didn’t even try. They laughed. Oh boy oh boy,

Isn’t that so much more wonderful?

The little ball has cancer.

In its liver.

I am an alcoholic, the little ball admits.

One day the little ball went to see a play

About a girl and a boy who ran astray.

There were fairies and dragons and elves along the way,

But the little ball screamed, bullshit! bullshit!

And had to be taken away.

What a lovely day it is! it exclaims.

Today is when God will come down and take me back,

And kill all you miserable fuckers once and for all!

Daydreaming

It takes something new for me

to swallow the colors that come to me

in dreams, in waking serenity—

lovely, I think—

how charming—things that just seem to

fall

toppling from a mirror down to

the bathroom where I stand,

my feet icy from the hard granite floor,

my hands stuck to the counter,

eyes locked—locked—seared with an image

I usually forget once the sun rises.

But today (tonight) I remember:

wasn’t there a sheet of paper somewhere,

scrawled with fragmented thoughts and

hopes written out?—“come to _____ now,

bring nothing but you and your will.”

My hands are oddly still.

A feeling of lightheadedness surrounds me;

it’s coming to me now, whispering:

“Sure, sure, it’s fine. Have another chocolate,

will you?”