Graffiti

July 24 2011

Drawing outside the lines.

Which sounds bad

with crayon, and colouring book.

Not that I’m any good

when there are no lines,

confined to stick-figures, finger-paint

rollers, and spray cans.

A grown man

unable to draw.

But then I saw a picture

of Jackson Pollock.

He was standing, as if about to leap

  —  a greyhound

straining its leash.

With the canvas

stretched out at his feet,

he used both hands

attacking the thing  — 

slash/spatter/jab,

daub/drizzle/dab.

Until at last

he’d created a masterpiece.

He ignored

the ruled borders

of the formal frame,

painting most of the floor

in the total absorption

of art.

He defied the lines of convention,

would not be contained

I would never presume

to understand colour, space, shape

like Jackson Pollock.

And I’m far too bourgeois

to spill paint

on expensive hardwood.

But I do draw outside the lines.

In part because

I’ve always felt marginal  —

out of sync

with the world,

out of time

with my contemporaries.

I am an anthropologist

from another planet,

nose pressed to the glass;

taking notes

shaking my head

with incredulity

and horror.

I’ve lived through much

of the 20th century,

said to have been

the most bloody on earth.

And now, in the 21st

things seem worse.

So I choose red.

The colour of war, and sex

the emergency exit

nailed shut.

With a heavy brush  —

a blunt instrument, laid on thick,

as if I could paint away

my hopelessness

in broad impervious strokes.

We are all bad

at staying inside the lines  —

ambition, and greed

overreach,

our hubris

is blinding.

And as for me

I’m still unable to draw.

So my stick figures

have become the alphabet,

my canvas

a blank white sheet.

I draw conclusions,

leave plenty of room

for readers

to colour-in their own.

Not fixed

to a gallery wall

I can go wherever you please,

memorized, plagiarized

recited.

So take your spray can

and take my words;

together, let us vandalize

the world.