1.
her belly button's
like de kooning's
late work
wide / open
2.
elegant/ touchable & wide / o p e n
ribbons of
soft
color
from a primary eye.
3.
soft /
/ elegant & open
she floats on a vast sea of white
4.
her hair
cropped tight to her scalp is red
her eyes wide open & as vast
as the White / SEA
all these elements
are the waves
that make up the back of her
head
which help to form a
canvas
5.
someone in this open space
speaks
ITALIAN &
i disperse
& re/
/ connect
like the lines in de kooning's late paintings
as always
lines forming words on white
space
are not as elegant as
PAINT.
i wanted to leave but felt trapped within the Q & A
fine full blades of grass crept up thru the clefts
of the ruins
& a field of roses surrounded the colonnades
trapped within its chassis
we need not create a world i mutter something to jim
used to be so's one could walk within the garden
w/o seeking solutions
h.w.'s pretty wife left him for a rich young free mason
anti-all-the-rest where will all the poems and rhetoric
go now bad enough in any season but this one so interchangeable
with the last
he's closing up shop for dollar & health ( c.z. not a bad looker )
will not see that statue where emma lay
rise up before her again
we sat in the truck it wreaked of sullen & free
crammed with colonnades & no license to bear them
i muttered something to jim
what is free mason & does he still exist
slave revolt he says disguised as wild orgy
something tells me then tells someone else same
what's meant by all the pony i asks is all that philosophy ya speaks of is it useful
say's useful as a poem there's the rubout climbing toward the tops of it
i insist on leaving but only to myself. i am seated in a corner trapped within the Q & A.
i'm not easy to read though i always think i am so i say here this is what i am read me hey
don't read me i'll do it for you h.w. says she left him & his funds & health are failing.
oh, stinking fucking rotten world where an uncontrolled grope comes so natural.
cider in the corner coffee's not so good here anyhow none's the music either
it's all the same anyway 2 dead crows in the little basket with a lid they've been showing us
them for decades i mutter something to jim i could have left hours ago
but instead munch another carrot the Q & A is over i ask WHY…
the freedom to be a woman
a man painting a
woman a line
liberated from space
_______________________
& then violently applied to destroy & reconstruct itself
a scowl a smiling instance of tenderness
the pink lady looks up hurt wondering waiting
the freedom of line torn from space
franticly de ___________________________________ constructed
with order pathos tenderness & light
the ribs
torn from the man
sharp ribs with infinite line haired edges
jangling every which way
to make a perfect composition
her teeth perhaps too big her breasts too full with feeding
but she is the total embodiment
of his desire
his hysteria &
his love.
Steven Dalachinsky was born in Brooklyn, New York sometime after the last Big War and before lots of useless little wars...he has been writing poetry since before then and has always...he is basically self-taught...his great loves and influences are the Beats, Blake, Kafka, Camus, Harpo, surreal and abstract painting and music......especially jazz and so-called "Avante Guarde" or "FREE" jazz. Two key elements in his poetry are spontaneity and the idea of transformation rather than description with a preference toward non-linear, non-narrative thought. He resides in Manhattan where he has lived for the past 30 years.