Gronk’s three panels
splatter
the browning of America
from floor to ceiling.
The view remains
undetermined.
On which side of the border?
Corn grows in suburban backyards.
A woman’s clavicle,
beautiful in every color.
Gronk’s fence is rusted,
a double string of barbed wire
anchored at the bottom
of the painting.
The fence tears blue tongues,
snags
Chiclet teeth,
cracks open
a Molotov cocktail.
Such violence.
Boom. Explosion.
Chocolate ice cream melts.
A designer handbag
crumbles onto a pile
of cement bricks.
Jaguar paw prints
saunter past
swimming pool
reflections.
Delicate fingers pick at fine silks.
The cone is a volcano. El volcán,
an Aztec warrior. The warrior
points toward a city landscape,
after safe passage:
cement, glass, asphalt.
