Today I feel like an unfinished painting
A canvas of random drips and streaks            
          even Pollack lovers would have a hard time deciphering  

Well her denims are definitely generous      they might say       
      And her palette does muddle toward Aegean daydreams
But   personally     I find her blues way too moody  

Just look at the smeared lipstick       the Baroque blush     
                   Her radical reds need an organic faith     a bleeding perhaps  

And that orange        My Dear       too fussy              
                                         Too frantic              too . . . . . . . political  

Where is the purple delusion old women are supposed to sport?    
   That Hendrix haze certainly does expose all her runs and sags                          
                         Didn’t she once exhibit a spilled wine motif?  

Now that crow dotting there        those hieroglyphics of coal             
                  Could be her chiaroscuro eyes      
The midnight manifesto of her ink-suffered pages        

        All this white space     however    is a tacky exposure
Like brain waves let loose in a cloud store  

See how those green dribbles just limp the landscape                    
      Fluid as a dying creek in August     
                 Some mossy crawling through the hollows  

But now that yellow       that yellow has sublime promise
       With just a dab of butter     a pop of corn    maybe a stretch of daffodil                           
                                                 She could be the sun