9/24/2009

Mentally Ill

Is it psychotic to believe that everyone
around me is Elvis Costello, or that
my cat and I could unlock the greatest
expanses of each other’s minds, if it
wasn’t for this damn communication problem?

Is it sick to be unsettled, unsure, left
slightly nauseated every time I leave
a sleep timer on the clearer than real
life rational of reality television, after
all day listening to people talk like its real?

Is it unhealthy to indulge endlessly on
the decadence of every letter found
on the desert menu, only to spew
it all over this lined toilet bowl to
fit into this overpriced, quickly discarded prom dress?

Is it insane to beg the person at the bus
stop, in the other car at the light, in the grocery
store line, to, please, stop being so concerned
about anyone’s peace and quiet and, please,
start screaming anything meaningful about any type of

person or place or happening in this world, so that
I may praise it, or refute it, or pass it on, or not?
Am I crazy? I’ve seen time as it truly is, as well
as in Einstein’s plains, and they are too similar to
compare. Thoughts I’ve always had, always popping

up, brand new, original. Such is the essence of
dawning. As the enraged buck, spurned from
life’s only meaningful endeavor, does not hesitate to
impale the unguarded fawn on his unmighty antler,
so does the squad car’s siren gush across rural inter

state highways after a long night of shots, one each
time the loud mouth is not the father, and two for every time
the quiet, nice feller is. I never knew my parents.
I know them now, I can say, and that is fine. Finer than the
Plexiglas hidden so stealthily inside the filters of cigarettes.

You feel that numbness? That’s how you know its working! Isn’t it
wonderful you can now concentrate at work! I no longer have any thoughts
of suicide, no more dreams of tomorrow, not any hope for today. But I’m ok
with that. I draw blood
with this razor sharpened pen.

Let’s have a seat in this drained, porcelain tub.
Let us just see if we can’t fill this horribly frigid thing to its utter brim
with still warm, human blood. Just to bask in it.
Just to bathe in life at it’s most biologically literal
so we can say that we did, if just once.

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