I started seeing in orange
when they barred the windows
and every flight of stairs
ended with a painting.
One professor asked us to describe
Pollack’s work to someone who
I would rather describe them to
someone who couldn’t see.
We are all dying to scream
but have no mouths to make sound.
I remember wanting ice cream once.
A friend to sit under the dining room table with.
When I was 8 and had a bowl cut,
I would put on my pink leotard
and drag a chair into the middle of the room
for twirling and somersaulting over.
Dad did not look up from his daytimer,
mom kept cutting onions,
and the boys only stopped playing
playstation to tell me to stop
shaking the tv with my fatness.
I knew they were jealous and danced
better than before.
The storm of a man who thought better of himself
than to weep with brushstrokes
makes me wonder if my stories should be more static
and less staten island.
My beginnings are void and dark and the spirit of God
moving on the face of my deep.
That trip to Riker’s island
reminded me of Dante’s Inferno
where everything turned orange
like the hands of a clock peeling fruit.
Poets and prophets peed the bed once.
Presidents were afraid of clowns.
There is a window in every painting
and if the light is bright enough the glass
reflects the viewer.