Forced myself inside
to reside
for a long vacation.
Why the up and up
and down, down, down?
Perhaps I will emerge
with winsome words
and ill gotten gains.
There are
no voices.
There are
no visions.
And yet
there are still
white walls.
Tag Archives: mental illness
I will have to sink with hundreds of others on a dumbwaiter into hell
Of course guitars will not play!
Ready to gallop
alongside you
thinking
you empathize
with me
In a white place
It shouldn’t be
so reassuring
with you singing
in my ear
sharing
your years
over the course of minutes
You say
I know you
I know
I know
I respond
Meanwhile in New York City
Water-
streaked
faces
Water
cutting
paths
through
dust
Eight
million
faces
grind
and jostle
clammer
and spread
like insects
breed
like rats
undulate
and gesticulate
honk
and finger
Water
over faces
solitary
faces
saline
solution
dripping
down
down
down
taking with it millions
of dead cells
their masses
sleep
in doorways
wrapped
in woolen
blankets
sleep
alone
in rooms
with lead paint
peeling
curling
down the walls
sleep
with strangers
in asbestos-lined
boxes
and
on and on
and on and on
A man
no doubt
with a Bible
on a podium
spouting
redemption
through tragedy
In the morning
they will emerge
from their sticky
hovels
chinese rocks
in their veins
snow
in their nostrils
serotonin dissolving
in their brains
Faces
in a well-lit room
In blue
mass-produced
plastic
chairs
Heads bowed
New York City
will not mind
This five-buroughed beast
heaves
and sighs
This machine
continuous
Tears
in the aisle
Tears
leading up to the pine box
Tears
Atop my body
Dear friend,
Too
many acquaintances
and comrades
losing their daily
clashes
and thus relegated
to exile
at hospitals
psych wards
and childhood homes
(In the case of the latter
confused parents care
for them like
the lioness pawing
its injured cub
Why won’t it eat
Why won’t it move
Why won’t it wake up)
In years past
they endured
these trials
and I yearned
for my brain
to connect to theirs
And now
those days
long since vanished
and I want their
brains
to connect to mine
A flickering
There’s a flickering coming from underneath my door. A catatonic state of insanity. A medicated glimpse at James Dean in the modern era. A yawn and a cry of “Boring!” A locked cage with two unlocked doors. He can leave anytime he would like. But his mind keeps thrashing about while his body stays quiet.
Now I am in the cage and Dean, in his displeasure, stares and then shuts the door on me. I urinate into black water.
That night he shares that he is a ten, because tomorrow he is going to court to preserve himself through science.
Life tilts backward and forward
A grimace on your face
Expecting you to
howl
like him
the unloved son
The genius not nurtured
instead left to drift
Empty
eyed
Slouching
in silence
staring out a window
I will be a light thing
Melissa speaks with a lisp
and places a frozen orange
against her head to restore reality.
She cries most every day
for no discernable reason.
Cuts
and cuts
and cuts
and then
every other day
over three weeks
she lives for minutes
where she is nothing
but a lightning rod.
crying me me me
I have spent the past week
crying me me me.
Now
the week I get out
a concert.
And someone else
displays their self-indulgence.
Sharing
all the words
they have prepared.
All the words they know.
Their fingers nimble
their fingers too fat.
An exhale
an amnesia
for a few hours.
A lessening
of racing thoughts.
better somehow to drop myself into an old room
Lying
in my casket
in my tomb
My old womb
Not warm
but familiar
No birth
into poison
Rather
an aborted
life
when you emerge
a bright
light
of freedom.
horrible
horrible
freedom.
a blustery wind
with no absolution.
a handshake
with a stranger.
a bus shelter
with no schedule.
a phone call
with a lover.
liberty
with no emancipation.
