Jackson Pollock

jackson-pollock-paint
Out of silence, and lidded smolder,
arose a localized storm.
You could say
it was a balletic squall
forecasting its own tyrant reign
and fall, a fate designed
to galvanize and then blackout
not so gently into that goodnight
exit wreck.
Nature is as nature does,
right, Mr. Pollock?
In your rare case,
mercury dripped
from your stubby filaments
like quicksilver on the lam,
and you, part-man, part-wolf,
part-periodic-chart-of-elements,
spindling rogue science and alchemy
into a singular tempest,
you, Pollock, changed the course
of weather.
You disrupted the static quo
by flashing X-rays of a gutted dreamscape,
by showing us the prehistoric graffiti
on God’s bathroom stall.
Some people blanched, others blushed, some sneered,
still others reviled
the day you picked up a brush
and dared to anoint yourself a painter,
as if
art was their remedial eunuch and pet valet,
housebroken and trained
to cross the parlor
without disturbing their death-rites
or wrinkling the air.
The testicular jilt
and primacy of your form
did not fit their paradigm,
they hadn’t yet designed
the right bag in which to carry your balls.
Of course, what they lacked in vision,
they made up for in money and scissors,
and so it was only a matter of time before
snip and kaching.
Alchemy defies dimestore analysis,
and yet the riots you laid down, Pollock,
the freewheeling dervishes and calisthenics
captured on canvas and arrested in space,
continue to inspire freebase bop solos—
Form following dysfunction
of the world at large
off a cliff
running the ground up
to lightning rods within
igniting crack and boom
and the kaleidoscopic pop
of a cosmic aneurysm
BIGBANG
                                    seeherenow
the manic hodgepodge of conjugal blips
                                    seethereabove
nimbus mating with melted crayons,
and the whorling gist of Van Gogh’s skies
reimagined as atomic ruptures
                                    seedownbelow
waggling freeform tentacles
of a giant mythical squid with a bloodlust
for pirates and ships
                                    seeburningwithin
viscous hysteria, and vitreous strands of dreamstuff
as if bugleblown out of the Universe’s congested pope of a nose.
You danced your beautiful palsied dance
inside the paintings, Mr. Pollock,
you romanced dark clouds and silver linings
with your own glyphic sense of cherish,
and if nature is as nature does,
then I’d say that
soul-expansion and self-annihilation
ran hand in hand
in you
like vagrant playmates or prickly bedfellows,
the molecular rasp
of a perfect storm
beyond which all else
paled.

 

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About John Biscello

Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, spoken word performer, and playwright, John Biscello now lives in Taos, New Mexico. He is the author of two novels: Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale and Raking the Dust, and a collection of stories, Freeze Tag. His fiction and poetry has appeared in: Art Times, nthposition, The Wanderlust Review, Ophelia Street, Caper, Polyphony, Dilate, Militant Roger, Chokecherries, Farmhouse, BENT, The 555 Collective, Instigator, Brass Sopaipilla, The Iconoclast, Adobe Walls, Kansas City Voices, and the Tishman Review. His blog--Notes of an Urban Stray--can be read at johnbiscello.blogspot.com. Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale was named Underground Book Reviews 2014 Book of the Year.
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9 Responses to Jackson Pollock

  1. I might still be stuck on the line that reads God’s bathroom stall

    Like

  2. Bravo! This is an incredible poem. Nice work.

    Like

  3. I can’t seem to like the right comment. Lol I’m everything challenged.
    BUT
    What I was going to say was
    It’s not morbid to ask you to write my eulogy? The hell with John Pine.

    Like

    • I’d be honored to write your eulogy, would be fun. Will you be needing it anytime soon? : ) Sincerely Yours, John Pinebox.

      Liked by 1 person

      • I wish I could spell. Lol the afflictions of the people who want to be writers, I tell ya.
        I’m hoping you have some time, but get started just in case you have to throw it together quickly in the event of a global warming catastrophe or an infected stubbed toe

        Like

      • Global warming’s a myth according to my Republican soothsayer, Phil. But death by infected stubbed toe. That shit’s for real and can take you in a heartbeat, good speller or not.

        Liked by 1 person

      • Right? I’ve been near death due to infection before! No laughing matter although we’re sounding rather jovial about it right now.
        I’m so glad I don’t have a republican soothsayer haha yikes

        Like

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