Shmoo

I think I am one

life, one memory

cloaked injury shield

hawk guarded field

 

I think I am one

hazy sunlit shade

reflected fire blade

craving another run

 

Never done, un-won

stroking heat

beat, back beat

street meat

 

I think I am one

cheap cheetah

tearing raw flesh

praying for vulnerability

 

Stable stealth

guilt-stricken bitch

beneath floorboards

a concrete witch

 

I think I am

driven by fear

afraid to sheer

Turtle Shells.

The Writer
Mercenary steam
engulfs steel beams,
borderLines IdentIty.
I write my dream…

Moving through time
Writers’ Suicides:
collide—sublime.
“No Exit is Blind.”
 
Illness, not overcome;
The DSM: never done.
The Labeled never won;
kept a distance from The Sun.
 
Closely-reading—pain;
The Battle and The Blame.
Scholars making games:
an education-maze.
 
Students read Patients’
novels found in basements,
novels not misplaced;
scorned Writers; complacence.
 
In death, highly revered.
In life: hated, feared.
The Nov-ill-ist
writes-right-here.

Minutes After Midnight

“Jung alone among the great psychologists refused to classify people into groups according to their sufferings.  He has been charged with failing to provide a detailed and systematic theory of neurosis along with etiology and treatment.  Is this really a failing?  Perhaps it is his virtue to have alone recognized the gross inadequacy of only outside descriptions.”  -James Hillman

Dr. Altar inquired, “Is there a history of bipolar disorder in your family?”  I calmly but not too calmly replied, “No.”  All of my responses were carefully calculated, as were each and every one of my moves.  I looked drained but not ill.  I looked tired but not addicted.  I was social but not too social.  I was released immediately after my video consultation with Dr. Altar.

Privacy laws were broken and I was bruised and cold as I exited into the outside air.  It was raining.  After having just been schooled on the ins and outs of voluntary versus involuntary commitment I was happy to be shivering and sleepless in the rain.  The very basic freedom to move around was again mine and I went straight home.  I spoke to Abba and Ammi.  Before that I went to pick up two packs of Camel Blues with an individual whom I refer to casually as an old friend of mine that you’ve never met.

I was blue for seven days following but the knives didn’t scar me this time.  The girl may die; I will not attend her funeral.  The recurring image is of a knife the size of Manson’s microphone in my right hand.  I proceed to stab the underside of my left wrist full force, dragging immediately all the way up to my elbow.  I slice all the way through and bleed to death.  There is blood everywhere.  This image consumes me yet I do not act.  My death will either be accidental or natural—synonymous terms these days.