taking that rotten stuff
after I mucked up a poorly planned
suicide (ripping open flesh, skin, vein
with a stubby-looking steak knife)
and didn’t have the mustard
to muster another. I remember
sitting in this doctor’s office,
in a small myriad of doctor’s offices,
answering a small myriad
of doctor’s questions:
does your mood change drastically often?
do you do things spontaneously, then regret them?
is there a history of depression in your family?
(answers:) I’m a 20-something, loner-type male;
what do you think?
I don’t regret my choices, merely ponder their consequences.
and yes, no.
and yes and no.
yes. no. more.
of course, I don’t know how to tell
men in white coats
things that bluntly, but I assumed he got the gist.
so, like good old dead mr zevon,
I took the medicine
that was prescribed.
in the beginning it was kinda like being almost
a little half-tipsy constantly.
then the effects wore down, off, away.
my nerves were far worse
coming clean, coming down
than they ever did
hello hello hello
but then, months and months later,
I moved away from that doctor,
yet felt compelled to keep trying
the medication; if the wound ain’t healed,
why pull out the stitches, right?
the second doctor asked the same
questions, got the same answers and set me up an appointment
with still another doctor.
we danced the same words
but she ended on
a different reaction.
she consulted with the second doctor,
and they agreed to kick out my
and to drink less.
I tried that, and my nerves were
shaky for a while, but got better.
I hadn’t quite come out of the cold yet,
but I was getting warmer.
it’s easier to not wanna
when you don’t think so much
so more over more is over
and the suicide rate around here is as low
as the medicine prescribed.
alright. good. maybe I’ll rip open
one of these