I Of course you're right in saying that I'm sick: No healthy person wants to **** himself.... But those psychiatrists' pills 'd **** me just as surely as this gun: They'd **** the me that feels.
II You ask how I'm doing.... I fear, not well.... By all objective measures I should be content, but the heart mocks objectivity.
I cling to life by the thinnest of threads: My art is the thread by which I cling....
Written some years ago. Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem: humanist-art.org/old-site/audio/SoF_081_sickness.MP3 .