Wednesday, October 28, 2015

Palette Knife

A chasm                 between two eyes,
not binocular vision as one would expect
but lizard eyesight       in that each eye can
function independently.

Two visions bridging two
blotches of color,            burnt umber and
cerulean, let’s say,            to seek substance,
oncoming substance,         connection
where none might exist,

         but to seek it in art in that an ambitious failure
         is more valuable than
a small success.
Language is narrow, nonexistent on occasion . . .

what is sensed is evasive,
          is altering,
like the blotches of color that don’t quite overlap but
          approach each other,
sparkle for a split second, then muddy,
          palpable in that
you experience a beginning
          and ending concurrently.

Not knowing what I write,
          or will write,
     I see something, hear something.

     I open myself wide,     grasp the handle of
a poem, this poem    hold tightly as if
running down a mountain,
meandering through a park.
What I can use, use, what I can’t, discard.

      A color, a note,
       a truth (a fallow word)—
you can’t hold it, subjugate it, train another
in its expanse. A scent, but hardly
enough to thrive on. Colors are many, small,
       multiple. Enveloping you
so you remain unfound but not lost.