Collage

I slather a thick layer of molding paste
on 140 pound hot pressed paper and
dig into it
with golf tees, combs, Afro picks
and my fingers.

Aboriginal marks, petroglyphs, ancient symbols
from the collective unconscious
come pouring out .
Pouring out of me.
Pouring onto the paper.

I tease apart some cheesecloth,
decoupling warp from woof,
to create whispy filaments
embedded in a strata
of heavy matte medium.

My spackling knife smears stripes of
alizerin crimson, transparent pyrole orange and cerulean blue.
Wild, frenzied colors evoking
jungle drums
and monkey screams.

Seed beads add sparkle.
I drop them into the gel medium
and watch them settle.
Then I shred and tear my fabrics and foils,
glue them to the surface,
add layers of leafing,
copper, silver, and gold.

A thin wash of interference gold paint
obscures the black gesso lurking underneath.
Mocking all physical laws, the reflected light
levitates off the surface of the sheet and
spirals into space.

Underlying silver leaf flashes like a
pogie near the pier.
Its submerged silhouette reveals itself
only if the light happens to catch it.

I have no preconceived plan,
no predetermined destination.
I charge down the path alone but
have no idea where it will lead me.
Nor will I be certain when I have arrived.