Bipolar, My Schizophrenic Molar, and Hemingway’s Last Dance
You are poetically perfect in your diamonds and chains,
despite the scars that remain
from your summer of endless storms.
Remember? This. In the beginning
it was perfect, but then the godless hymns
began to fall
from darkened skies—
Everywhere we turned you saw a muzzled sun,
daylong dusks, and animals, like us, in search of a higher ground.
We were mucked up on Jackson Pollock’s hues
when our chemicals had a lover’s quarrel.
Off you went,
walking barefoot through a field of razor blades
that fell with a recent storm.
Our skin still remains. It’s layered in stories
about the Buddha in rags or the Devil
wearing Tom Ford. Who
am I to criticize your fashion statements
simply because I don’t understand
the emperor’s clothes?—
What about those days when you preferred prison
to paradise, rocks to roses,
or landmines to a gold-plated Lexus?
Where does the Nexus begin
and end?— A strip club in Texas or under our chin?
Since I’m dying please let me
into the office so the dentist can remove the abscess.
Until he can the pain continues
like a punch to the jaw.
I’m going down like Tyson did
when Buster Douglas knocked him out.
When I wake up we can make love in the front yard,
breeding like rabbits among the fallen leaves
I’ve seen you kill
a bottle of Scotch with an infantryman’s discipline,
or stay sober and float like chaff through the breeze.
I am craving my name
in my skin, so I’m carving it in
with a #2 pencil—
No one knows this but the shrink at the VA hospital—
That I am you and you are me
in myself and myself in thee,
an equation where one plus one always makes three,
or four or five-
the sky looking down on our immediate family—
Together we share a common sorcery.
Someone hide the shotgun before it finds us.