Postmortem Artists, #79

I’ve grown worn of butterflies,
their wings deathlessly
painted postmodern
masterpieces, their attitudes
painfully flighty. How many
lifetimes trashed
imagining myself subtle
and disappearing
behind trees,
a slave to the wind.

Pollock would drop
immense globs of paint
from various heights
and name trust in gravity
artwork, because nobody
in recorded history
had called faith
in the forces of nature
and a keen eye
for color God.

And butterflies,
those obscene
bohemians unwilling
to work at their art,
to read the classics
or create moods
of discernible tone,
butterflies who call
themselves atheists
or worse, agnostic.

His drippings hang in galleries
around the world
open to exhibit
wild shades and hues
happened on by fluke
and accident, a willing
ignorance to the conscious
mind, ethic any instructor
would label genius,
neglect or lazy.

I’ll suffer these delicate
sensibilities no more,
spend no more
afternoons at the window
laboring over the length
of a line, thickness
of each brushstroke,
precise nuance,
vibration, connotation
of a word.

Wings will stop
whiffling, pinned down
under glass and hung
on my wall like deer antlers
or the largest bass
in state history.
I’ll call it:
Example eleven,
postmortem artist under glass,
Pollack at noon sleeping.

A mess waits for us,
lying about the room
like shards of leaves
and broken branches,
knots of panties and
twisted bristles,
last night’s chinese food
boxes, empties clinking
about at our feet
from the happening.

I can only hope to start
cleaning, a bit
at a time, a stroke here
a line,
a metaphor or conceit,
one limerick laughing:
There once
was a monarch
in Paris.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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