Blots

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There’s a meaningless inkblot, and the others ask you what you think
you see, but when you tell them, they start arguing with you!
……………………………………………………. —Richard Feynman, physicist
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in inkwell times when quills were used
(the ends of sharpened feathers split
which, while a writer worked, twitched
as when a bird would scratch an itch)

we etched our hieroglyphs in night-black licks
pausing intermittently to dip a quill’s split tip
into wells as black as pitch (though candlelit) 
and coaxed from shades the hairs we split

we spilled their tells upon a page
by sucking spells from pots of ink
to unseal what we thought it was about
we scribbled convoluted knots of think

now (supposing we’ve come far)
we play licks with keyboard clicks,
and broadcast algorithmic tropes
divining inkjet blots that we still hope 
will take to what it is that makes us tick
—we gaze at screens of Rorschach strokes
dueling doubt in instant bits
still scratching heads
thinking hard
till time quits

Jim Culleny
3/4/17

Painting by Jackson Pollock
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