The Hudson Looks Different (on Joan Mitchell’s The Hudson River)

from a woman’s peep-show hole
seen from behind a square cotton tableau blanc
when a woman paints like a man and a woman
she is dangerous
defiling the most spiritual of shapes
a brush is a cock and a cunt dipping
into the river that flows fitfully from all angles grunting fuck
Kandinsky for gendering color
is blue really the most spiritual hue?
and does yellow glow out of control?
and is red so masculine it flows from whose wound?
so Joan with her Ida and Pingala unleashed her
circumscribed spectrum
in squirts and spurts
usurped the river flow
and the river became
its own godded object
a serpentine mesh of ineffable golds and blues
swirling above the lead white that sprawled in anticipation
of its own extinction with red and Kandinsky
nowhere                                                                                                            in site


Once a Restaurant