the subject
24.
doctors are performing
a living autopsy on my brain;
they need insight,
they want to restore me somehow,
reboot me to original factory settings
i have become the subject:
the person contained in
three thick folders
of notes and observations,
prescriptions and medications
that’s what i am;
i am an experiment:
testing theories foreign to me
all around are the white coats
the doctors, the experts, the specialists;
each prodding me with their own questions
trying to de-code my answers,
they keep trying, writing more notes
i don’t want to care anymore what they think,
but i do:
they think what i know or feel isn’t quite real,
i’m not comfortable with their position
they talk soothingly about psychosis
in the clinical kind and remote terms
doctors use to avoid emotion:
vacant voices from the outside
asking asking asking for answers
i don’t have
early release
26.
After the declaration i made;
that i’m too tired of this place,
that i know somewhere else
is a better place,
that i have developed
a plan to escape the trench warfare,
the doctors had no choice
i remember,
how calm i was
or i dreamt i was calm,
how the hope for relief
was strong and tenacious
and numbed my skin in fear
that i would never feel relief
a straight-eyed statement
to a medical professional
with words like final or hurt
or pills or hopeless;
doctors take all that seriously,
if you look at them
don't blink or break your committed stare
or say this — i’m not laughing at the joke anymore
then ask — what are suicidal ideations?
and are they suicidal thoughts
or plans and preparation
the answers didn't matter
after this:
i am not granted early release.
painted empty
28.
I come back to my apartment;
it sounds like i’m walking backwards,
i touch the walls and the chair:
it’s all different
it’s all the same,
if this was my home
it isn't now:
there’s a bed and a bath and some clothes
so i’ll live here
this apartment is painted empty
you can’t avoid the presence of emptiness:
it seeps into everything
plastic mattress
25.
Some mornings i wake up
molested by medication;
terrorized by apocalyptic tremors
for the duration of
my short morning scream,
that ends
as confusion
swims into my crusted view
the scene is:
the interior of a white room
with a mattress wrapped in plastic
for ease of cleaning,
in case of vomit or blood or worse,
laying on the bed
our hero,
me,
in a familiar cameo
the bed surrounded by metal handles
hanging tubes dripping fluid
the action happens
in the room,
with the door that is never fully closed,
with nurses who knock
and open the door
call out my name;
at midnight, 1 a.m., 2 a.m., 3 a.m., 4 a.m.
or shine a light on the bed,
the hourly check
that i’m still breathing
these mornings i wake up
sort of alive
the nurses know
they’ve done their job
better dreams
27.
I have better dreams now
i’m naming them better
someone told me once
naming something,
makes wishes come true
i keep my wishes
in a box i’ve never opened
better dreams,
that don’t keep me awake
that are stuck boots in muck and twigs
that have no distinction;
no careening corners or wailing terrors
no wings and freedom
boredom dreams
i call them better dreams:
i can’t think of anything better to call them
dreams made of a diet
concocted by a pharmacist;
the red pill makes you calm, and induces 7 hours of sleep,
the blue pill prevents depression and
helps counter the side effects of
the yellow pill that keeps mania under control;
the green pill is just in case
i hope that i’m taking placebos,
i vainly think a solution waits
it will be discovered after i die;
it will render all medications pointless:
hypocritically;
i keep believing this advanced medicine
isn’t just chemical voodoo
but a true answer,
morning pills, evening pills, never ending pill bottles
now i sleep with a fishbowl on my head;
my dreams are relentless in their tedium
sleep is barely recognizable;
i miss the horrible, disjointed, fabulous dreams
i feel like i’m dead in every dream
people tell me i’m better now
coming to a house
29.
I remember the voice of a nurse
with a kind forehead,
named nancy,
the name i called her
because i kept forgetting her real name
who spoke for me,
when i couldn’t speak
i miss her;
i miss her telling me
everything’s going to be ok
i’m sure she knew
everything was not going to be ok
i open up the package
with the shopper’s drugmart logo;
it rattles,
with bottles and pills
the sound of unwanted change
a new dance with no steps begins
my belief is now distant, on the run,
leaving little pieces of my history to gather up
i wanted to believe nancy
because she wanted to believe
when she said
everything will be alright
in time
i lay down
the last time i slept in this bed
it was porcupine needles
tonight it holds my eroding skin,
it sticks to my back
i can’t be less comfortable now
closing my eyes;
i think of leaving the pink skies
warm silver clouds,
of coming to a home
that is unknown to me
i remember everything
when i close my eyes
and think i’m asleep;
the glittering cracks in the ceiling:
that refract the light shapes,
that live in clown mirrors,
that distort the time i missed,
that reflect the contours
of my wished-for face
into a space and time;
that is only mine;
this what has become of me
for the foreseeable future