Writing is jazz with words,
Painting with sound.
If Jackson Pollack,
With his horizontal canvas,
An echo would be heard
Through the lonely courtyard
Like a saxophone
Writing a poem.
While darkness settles on the uneasy air
Dense fog offers a species of change.
Boarded up storefronts
Soaped windows opaquely curled
Banksy inspired graffiti swirls
To Pollack’s blood-dawn
Sharing light with the directionless
Sifting through the city
Arc lamps amplify color
As the protective grates
Over puddles of glass
Steam art’s soft shelter.
Inside the canvas tilts
Paint runs like insects
Dragging streaks across expanse,
Segments of code, patch of heliotrope,
Serpentine yellow slivers scald white,
Military-tan becomes industrial honeycomb.
A distracted man wades in paint
Arched like a feral cat
Barely visible in his lattice of armored black.
Discordant rhythms form sheets of lead-gray
Taming the insects into their thread-bare lacunae
While these cocoons breathe new DNA
Into incendiary misfires of scooped-sky.
Saxophone’s aperture opens,
Rebellious yells and painted wings
Hopscotching the cymbals of new expression.