The Tenth Dance of Christmas: Abstract Expressionist Incarnation Experiment
(this paint too thick for angels),
white and black bodies dancing daring arabesques
in Pollock's Greyed Rainbow.
The Divine art, too,
performed itself in violent human action,
taking on our skin, not as shell,
no safe outer layer,
but risking the very vertigo
transcending immanence the only way worth falling,
by entering in, l'amour par terre.
I say Pollock saw the truth.
Friend says he drank too much, smoked too much, lost all control,
and had that thing for women
other than his wife.
Yes he did. But when I say Pollock,
I mean oil, and light, and canvas,
and finding what you know just as
you learn to see it.
Within (not above or beyond or beneath) this
leaping interlace of black and white pulsation,
find all the colors of the world,
all joy and pain of every necessary blessed drip and drop of human love.
The action of one heart, one mind, one brush, one mad insomniac need,
spilled on one stretched taut pure linen world,
one tense, nicotine-stained, lost and lovely world.
Behold the truth, the cost of freedom,
A new Galileo, claiming,
that nothing goes around anything now.
Wherever you find yourself is where you will be found.
You fall, you leap, you dance, you turn, return,
to where the deep down colors never finally fade
in one bleak and brilliant swirling life.