this poem was inspired by a dvd i recently purchased
it is about the abstract artist Joan Mitchell
i highly recommend it
The interviewer is watercolor...green. The artist, antiqued abstract. He probes for her deepest sable secrets. She offers pale nothings from her musky attic retreat- He nibbles away with baby teeth. She slugs him in his ochre gut. With vague stone frogs croaking from the cracks of black souled mountaintops. Her being lies in the shadow of shadows. Briefly exposing its oily head From ancient mind scribbles and mayhem. The path to her treasures is overgrown. With the bluest bile and hungry thorn. He's too soft -too green to ever see. To bushwhack and bleed. To seek the trailhead. Like she slashed and bled 'til her soul was partly cleansed- He's unable to see what she clearly saw. So back and forth they go. Into a see-saw nothingness... Goddess of abstract - watercolor man A dead end of a dance. Her aurora left her long ago. Seeping lovingly into her paintings. An explosion of mental mitochondria. Hanging from dingy gallery walls.... She places her wrinkled flower face. Deep into her burnt sienna soul... The interviewer has been flayed. The interview is over.
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