February, 2023

2/23/23

My mother told me,
“I came out a crying baby:
Yellow skin, gangly teeth.
Wailing, with intense craving.”
They gave me water
to saturate my tears.
I closed my mouth
and smiled. It was just
hydration. It was just
a thirst.
***


Last week a fortune cookie told me:
“It’s tough to be fascinating.”
A week before then my father said,
“Every genius is crazy.”
That same ideology put me on a diet of prozac and creatine,
scrambling for meaning like Antionette under the guillotine,
as everyone eats their cake I look for water
to swallow the beauty lying clear in the foul.
My foundation I established, overruled
and adjourned, brought to court —
pulled from the arms of the world.

I say there’s too much
I-you-he-she-him-her-they-them-us-we
in poetry
then fall back on the same verbs of
each and everybody
and question if I really am crazy?

If I attempt to think real deep,
read “The Bell Jar” on repeat
will I feel the pleasure
from the pain in the
fame of my victory?
Or is the end
an attempt
to recreate
Poe in his pedigree?

My hunger led me to live
in-between, a gray dimming
smoke screen.

I told my friend how numb I was
and he told me:
“Maybe I was made for five years from now.”
I remember that five years ago
and ten before then,
but if I choose to be happy
do I lose my edge?

A week before then, I saw mural of Prince the size of a skyscraper,
then I remembered he died at 57.
I wanted to cool down for a swim, still thirsty in my skin
then thought of Jeff Buckley who drowned at thirty
another genius, proven unworthy.

A month ago my therapist told me to go on lexapro.
Inside, I knew the symptoms include:
-A necessity to feel abused
-Thinking insomnia makes you an artist
-Creating an attachment to sadness,
a stockholm gratis
-Feeling safer in the shade
of a false escapade
that I’m still fascinating.

In fact, I think I attempt
to make my poetry deep
by having it make no sense
and make others feel guilty
when they use the right terms
to transfer their emotions to words.
I gaslight their mind to cry
knowing, mental illness
is a race whose winner is traced
at the first to die.

Yes, I know, each shot
in my life,
from a baby crying
to my last goodbye.
To the quote inside
cookie resides,
stating:
“It’s tough to be fascinating.”

The words catch in my throat,
without water, I choke.