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!