Another visit to
Med Psych;
the withdrawals are
horrendous.
I’m emaciated and malnourished.
With the exception of
one meal every few
days, I’ve dined on ***** and
wine for my sustenance.
I check out a lap top from
the patient library, and
try to get the poems organized on
my flash drive.
Concentration is elusive.
The psych doctor decides
to have me committed.
She’s concerned about my
worsening health and depression.
I guess I can’t
blame her, but what
bird likes a cage?
I try to talk her
out of it,
but she’s resolute.
The next day, just
as the deputy is
serving me the
committal papers, I have
a seizure—a bad one.
My lips turn blue.
I **** myself.
The doctors pump me full
of Ativan. Everything is a
blur for the next
week.
Slowly, softly,
my mind comes back.
I get a room-mate;
turns out he’s an
artist, a fantastic
abstract painter,
his name’s Chris.
Chris gets the activity
director to bring
him some paints and
other art supplies.
He goes to work;
stabbing the paper
with his brush—
makes it bleed with
color. He’s a young
drunk;
a madman and a
genius.
I have my notebook and
my sword.
I pound out the word, the line,
my highway through this
silly society.
Chris and I talked
long into the autumn
night, locked in a
cerebral prison.
The room we were in
was more like a Greenwich Village
beat pad than it was a
hospital room.
