I Took Jackson Pollock To The Psychiatrist
I had a psychiatrist appointment
so I got out of bed early
and gathered all the worms I could find
there were none
the birds did not sing
it was February
I wore mittens over my ears
I put a bullet proof vest
over my heart
wore my seatbelt
and took a Jackson Pollock biography
with me to triage
there was a 15 minute wait
and me and Jackson Pollock
sat in the corner
getting side-eyed
by a fake rainforest plant
in the whisper quiet lobby
when it was my turn
to enter the combat zone
I was called by
a name that the government gave me
though no one else
ever calls me that
my psychiatrist tried
to teach me a new way to breathe
but I told him
I was having trouble
getting air through
white knuckle- fist clench
he said he will teach me
to live with my trauma
I said motherfucker
who do you think lies next to me at night
keeping me awake?
he said are you really reading
that giant Jackson Pollock book?
I said no
but they won’t give me a machine gun
and I want to be an artist too
he said we need to expose you
to the things you’re avoiding
I said I’m avoiding them
because they tried to murder me
and my natural instincts are
trying to keep me alive
he asked me how I was getting by
I said I come from nothing
he said you must have something
I said I plant flowers on roadsides
and we both grow in the dark
he said Jesus, that’s
a tough way to get to heaven
and I said that I had hoped
he knew an easier route
he said he will teach me
to make anxiety my friend
and I laughed
and said I’d rather
juggle rattlesnakes in hell
than hug a man
that has stabbed me in the back
every time I turned around
he said give me time
I can’t fix you in one appointment
I said I didn’t expect to be here this long
and tomorrow is a brown banana
he said have you tried meditating?
I said yes, every morning I sit
like a lobster learning how
not to howl in boiling water
he said don’t worry
we can manage this
and I said that’s cool
then drove home
trying to breathe through my eyelids
and dodging booby traps
most other humans
have never had to worry about
Jackson Pollock rode in
the 12 gauge shotgun seat
dead as Section- 8 daydreams
when I got home
I took a folded piece of paper
out of my back-pocket
it sighed as I put it on my desk
and it said that another psychiatrist
had lied to my face
there was no we
I wouldn’t see him for four weeks
it was just me and all this breathing-
screaming and killer clown
circus chaos
all living together
self taught
and learning to be an artist
I warmed up a can of soup
opened the Jackson Pollock book
and sat unarmed in another knife fight
paint dripped in my eyes
it was February
there were no birds
worms can’t sing
Dan Denton is a lifetime factory worker, and former UAW chief union steward. He was voted the best writer in Toledo in 2024, and his latest novel The Dead and the Desperate (Roadside Press, 2023) is available online from most booksellers. He writes for free on Substack at The Factory Poet.
