In and Out

Cold steel
Empty time
Endless thoughts
fill my mind.

The reality of
my concrete walls
brings memories
of soft passion.

What seems forever
is an instant
What seems an instant
is forever.

written 4/3/2000

Detour

Feeling good.

Life laying in

front of me

like a resplendent

grassy meadow.

A slight breeze

brushes my face,

and I here birdies

chirp lightly all around

me.

A plane flies above,

with the word “Detour”

on a sign tagging along

behind it.

 I observe my surroundings

again.  I stand in a

parking lot of a

state hospital. Sent there

because of my tendency

to try and kill myself.

The brick building

looms over me.  I follow

the case worker inside.

She neglected to let me smoke.

A Spiral

Thorzine, Moban,

Closoril, what

a physical thrill.

Ambien, Lunesta,

Ativan, a sleep

managed by man.

Luvox, Effexor,

Welbutrin, the

doctor’s guess

as good as mine.

Lithium, Depakote,

Tegratol, am I

rock steady yet?

Serequel, Zyprexa,

Risperadol,  I’m

400lbs. but I’m

not hallucinating.

Methadone, Morpheine,

Oxy, opiates that increase

The pain, mental.

I’ve taken more meds

than this in my lifetime.

I’m still insane and

searching for the right

med.

WTF?

I love grapes.

I hate olives.

If I ate a small,dark,

grape,

But thought of a black

olive,

I might taste an olive.

I venture to say I may

Like the olive.

Life would burst with a

new meaning, I may prefer

opera to cinema and caviar to

calamari.

Really?

Hell no!

A grape is a grape.

An olive is an olive.

And olive grapes.

I Know

I know what that
chair is for- to hurl
against the enamled
walls.  I get that the
CD's are to be whipped
like razor sharp frisbees
out the moving car
window.  I feel that
I received a permit
to bang my head
against the wall at
a fantastic decible.
I understand that every
now and again I can
accidentilly trip an old
bag.  What I don't know,
is why the hell science
never answers my desperate
call?  Might as well pinch
an infected area, assholes.

Heavy

My soul, hangs from

my heart, heavy like

when a punching bag dangles

from an unsuspecting paneled

ceiling.  Heavy limbs, heavy breasts,

heavy, not sexy, lashes that tend to

shut my eyes, blind me, add to my

debilitation. A heavy chin, that shows

off my Rosie O’Donnell, damning,

double, drooping chin. My demeanor

heavy and exasperated, in need of

a Ritalin for a break, from the heavy

doors of my perception.  Pep up, brief,

and understated.  Yet the soul remains,

yawns, heavy and left on a the tail

of a prayer.

The I Doctor

                                                                       

Appointment you

scheduled for

twomorrow.

Remember to tell

the I Doctor the

exact nature of what

ails you.  Which part

of the I rots inside of

your flesh canister?

What do your eyes

divulge to you, as you

screw your head inwards.

Tell the I Doctor all.

Leave no door unopened.

Expose every shade of your I.

Look the Doctor in the eyes.

Listen with every pore.

The doctor usually cons the

I out of me and throws it in

acid.  It fizzes into a nonentity.

Lighter, humbler and happier,

I return from the I doctor,

A veritable you. Welcome.