Jackson Pollock’s Talking Crude Blues
“… fermé. A closed man.”
(Matta on Pollock)
This hairtrigger poem
Could have been clawed
Right from Christ’s clotting side,
The impasto stanched with sand
And glass and diced stones,
Mica, stuck duco thrown up
Or down to heaven or hell
On a wall or floor with prong,
Roughbrush, trowel, knife,
Any fastdancing sprung-
rhythm more or less than
Critics and shrinks know,
This crude, my contours,
My écriture, my poles
Dripping blue night.
Page(s) 130
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