I THREW THIS POEM DOWN

I threw this

poem down

as if

it were a

carpet

as if

I were a Jackson Pollock

of words sloshing, dripping

to

my

(broken) heart's

content

(since I did fuck a

Queen of Hearts once

but

she has

long left me, is long since gone)

dribble, ooze -- the

flow

of language, rich

in its liquors

seems

less like oils and acrylics

by

the minute

Oh Mr Pollock

there is

a devotion in

your aesthetic

this

we have

to believe

the chaos butterfly

with her stained-glass, compound eye

onto which flashes

the image (another philosophy

would insist on

"concept")

of a

whirlwind

our (human-humus- ooman)

race needs just such a wind -- it

is in

our precious books

which

were sewn together where

not dreamt, a stream

of visions strung

on a single thread

and

out of

that whirlwind something

gloriously different, wholly alien

shalt arise

diamond sharp from

its bed

of ashes

beautifully-faceted, a

perfect prison

for the

light

and yet

fitting together in

one Olympus camera universal

pattern (one might

say ensemble) where

all perspectives dovetail

crucially matter

avatar for

our future, yours, mine

with his, her

golden skin (in

this instance most ductile, preciously malleable,

non-

racial metal).