Galla

crossing the bridge
this foggy morning
the day drifts in
   blue, teal, brown, cerulean
      pink, white, grey

let the morning
   into you
if we talk
   we share knowledge
if we listen
   to your hands

become
   in changing light
      (pinkred)

look withme
   withwords

a song line
   survival

why words the go?

they trap me now –
I don’t understand
guided tours

I’m resigned to accept it
but now they’ve gone
I can look at
the painting
(now I’ve gone)
bush plum

the tour words endure
I dispute them
it’s not ACTION PAINTING
it’s dribbles, drips
throws
not LAYERS
not NON-
   REPRESENTATIONAL
it tries to represent
what can’t be represented
and dooms itself   as it must
to glorious failure

it’s in layers   if
the other paintings
have words in them

what they say about
   your painting
is neither then
   nor here
you said
the modern painter
doesn’t have to look for a subject matter
   outside themselves
you painted the sub-
   conscious,
the sub-conscious layer 
(there is one
the prefix says so –
even that’s
   half a word)
but no words in this painting
we splash words on it
(thank you, Jackson)
words like ‘peace sign’
   (our bad) –
if we need information
   it’s not art

great art   makes you
   want to stroke the wall

I’m not looking for
   meaning
I’m looking for meaning’s absence
   that rare achievement
(the words
   the words won’t shut up)
like the fewer who don’t even care