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11/18/09 - (2)
Just Another Jackson Pollock Splatter Painting
It all began At approximately the precise point/junction/intersection Where it all came to a clashing/crashing/clattering culmination,
In a simultaneity, you might say, of atavistic oblivion, A vast atomistic vacuum, In which black holes swarm like ululating bats in cold-breathing caves.
"How does he know all this?" you have to be asking yourself. Perhaps I can tell you without resorting to facts, telepathy. It all has to do with metaphysical intuition, oracular prophecy —
My birth and death, that is, Those two cataclysmic events in my otherwise inessential life, The fungible existence I shared with millions of other lost souls,
The start of my terrestrial destiny and finish of my painterly fate, One night late, under a crescent moon, drunk, Bleeding, amidst the shattered glass of my crumpled Olds convertible,
Embedded in the unperturbed trunk Of a surrealistic tree I couldn't identify even if I'd seen it, Guarding the only entrance to the one cemetery in all of oblivion,
That location of my soul's nativity and its inauspicious going out, Ground-zero locus of my abstract being's raison d'être, The only home my expressionistic essence had ever known.
And so it was, is, and ever more will be, That whatever was meant to transpire in my tiny life Came and went, in a shrill, clashing/crashing/clattering flash,
A spectacularly random splatter of gloss enamels Dripping, like a Brownian motion of scattering atoms, Onto a Belgian-linen canvas unrolled across the floor of my brain,
Even as the reality of my alcohol-blistered vehicular mishap Came crackling in, to the East Hampton police dispatcher, As just another routine accident, to be recorded and hauled away.
11/18/09 - (2)
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