but aren't they all random?



A Pocketful of Poesy was a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog* up until the great derail of 2013. The impossibly-high standard of quality proved impractical to keep up, without a book deal. But don't take my word for it: click RANDOM and judge for yourself! And feel free to offer your critique.
*based on poem rate for calendar years 2009-2012. Also, kidding about the book deal.

Sunday, September 08, 2013

What Criticism

Jackson Pollock was, in many ways, the Beat
poet
of quintessentially-American Modernism. Like Kerouac,
he
moved through the world bipedally, guided by a binocular
superimposition
of imagery fed to his brain via optic nerve
input
from his left and right eyes. Like Neal Cassady, he had
an almost rude
appreciation for the charged sexual value he saw as
inherent
in the female buttocks - and in the vagina, nestled
just
forward
and between them. Like Ginsberg, his imagery
defied
attempts at rational decoding. And like Burroughs,
he was
- let's face it -
a bit of an asshole. Yet in at least one critical
aspect,

Pollock

stands apart from all of these iconic figures: he was
a
famous painter.

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