Voices in Words

If Pollack painted with voice instead of paint,
perhaps he would conceive a city block.
Each sound in spectrum, prismatic and alive,
and yet, all sounds, all sounds, all sounds.

In excerpts from writings, all cut and rolled together:
a living spliff to smoke upon:
Alive
All words, all words, all words.

And if I wrote an autobiography,
as did you, as did you, as did you.
And if we cut apart our works
and shuffled them all together,
Who would see? Who would see? Who would see?

At what frontier do words remain words remain words?
In what phrase does my voice raise colors to the sky?
And yours: when and where and why?