WUCERLO NUMBER 8

I wish I could write like Pollock paints, grabbing fistfuls of language out of the dictionary, squeezing emotion out of the alphabet, drizzling pronunciation onto the page.

Sheets of lined paper would litter the floor while I tarantella’d around them, pouring out liquid words, heedless of connection to any idea.

Balancing precariously on the head of the moment, I would teeter back and forth between past and future.

How envious I am of Pollock’s ability to stand so firmly on the microscopic present as if  it were a steel-girdered bridge instead of a freckle.

Maybe I could even randomly include words like “nail” and “cigarette” into the piece.

I wish I could write like Pollock paints, dancing out language and composing with my body, entering into my work and becoming its partner.

I would love to shout “Opa!” at the top of my lungs!

Copyright 2009

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s