[No. 1, Jackson Pollock, 1948]
Learned from John Cage, Hermann Hesse and the Other
There is now no shedding it.
It is in you. In me.
Shifting, glowing, humming
like the core of a neon light. Or uranium.
And lime will break you, then me,
or me, then you,
down to gray-white powder.
Or fire will shatter me, then you, or you, then me,
to carbon, ash. Either way.
Either way we’ll have another life.
In dust. Settling on top of a wooden radio,
or a fine novel, among other fine novels, aligned on an oak shelf,
drawing others to fur there.
We’ll keep accommodating, shifting and fitting to each other–
it is our nature to accommodate, shift and fit–
graciously, now, no thought to my territory or his,
We’ll have reached a higher place
atop the radio or novel,
in our dustiness.
We don’t complain.
We accept things now, we watch new
dust approach daily. We do not like them.
We do not dislike the. We let them fall
on us. We give in. We surrender to each speck.
Moment after moment our utopian collective
reconfigures. We know each other, we see
with our whole beings. We press our presences
into each other. We glow with vibrant life.
Our relationships burn with being.