Compulsion on 
Number 1A 1948

pollock at a potluck.
the world pouncing down 
on the white wall-floor. 
if they turned me inside
out it. if they turned me
inside out & gave
each compulsion a color.
a brilliant breaking
of a tumor-- a vein 
burst like a yellow jacket.
the swarm in the trash can 
where there's always brothers.
you ask me again about
my routines. about what happens
inside my body. i laugh 
because i want to take
you here & drip-spatter 
all over. a blue meandering
through the house-- 
anxious & angry at 
the numbers 
under finger nails.
i take out all
the condiments & test
their ability to splatter
as i pour them over myself.
i want to me 
misunderstood. i want
to be a knot &
a violet smudge
across my knees. 
as a little girl
i would sit in front 
of the painting for
hours-- tracing each
strand of obsession--
my favorite was 
the strands of garnet.
i peeled them off
& swallowed each like
an earthworm. it's moving.
all of it. a colony
of what what what?
i don't want to be
legible. every black brash
enough to admit it's
afraid. 
it's not
done yet. 
i gulp down 
old paints-- lips 
pigmented white
in the spirit of 
drunk daddies.
kiss the wallpaper,
perfect stamp.
each a pair of 
lips another 
voice to count with.
sing a round.
throng color--
disintegration of
a nervous system.
step back.
it's destroying
me/you & it's 
a glorious righteous
kind of wild.
i roll the canvas
back up & sword
swallow. pollock
praying the only
way he knows how.