Off Lithium I'm glad I took off that lead helmet. My brain isn't kryptonite for God's sake. They said I needed it-yeah, like a hole in the head for all my original thoughts to leak out like ear wax on my pillow. Now I see the stains of my dreams. My tolerance for alcohol has increased-- drank a twelve-pack and didn't feel it slept three hours and woke refreshed with the marvelous idea of making shoes with living grass for insoles, have seven pairs, wear each once a week, put it in the sun for a six-day Sabbath recovery, here I come Birkenstock, man was meant to walk on grass and soil not linoleum and concrete it's the shoe companies in bed with the tile and concrete folks I'm sure of it it takes a fresh idea to bust that monopoly but I got a patent lawyer. Sometimes the earth seems small overwhelmingly vulnerable to asteroids then so solid beneath my feet with layers of fossils and in Montana where they dig the sky is big the stars are angels and everything is what it is supposed to be, you know perfectly itself no form against function or separation but constant evolution toward the center because progress is an illusion like time. When I see my initials carved in clouds and hear my name whispered I understand others can't see the subatomic ether that connects us in an embryonic way where the acorn is the oak and the oak the acorn everything that rises must converge not diverge Einstein knew it but couldn't prove it while Hawking is being punished for his atheism by being slowly absorbed by God am I talking too fast? Of course with your smarts you can follow me when no one else can possibly follow the ferment of my quicksilver mind beechwood-aged like Budweiser Kleidsdales how's that for mixed metaphors pinafores semaphores Texas whores? Saw a whorehouse in the middle of nowhere landing strip aluminum huts cowboys and congressmen I could go there right now at the speed of light no cop could catch me with my radiator iris nothing by trying something immense as a thigh royal condition neutrino shield no cretins aloud am I talking too fast?
C.E. Chaffin's Questions:
How well does the experience of reading this poem propel one
into the feeling of a manic psychosis? What would make it more
Casuistry In this early September heat with no hint of October, thin hair plasters my scalp like spaghettinni and I am fat. I wasn't always fat. In home movies I am skin stretched over a xylophone, taut as a kayak. Now my body inflates like a spacesuit thick and foreign as a sleeping bag. I understand breasts better now but there is no bra for these sacks of coins beneath the skin whenever I move. As an antidote I try to see me more as the sum of my existence than a single frame, and base my weight not on this moment but on the average of all my weights since birth. Using this method I'll never be as fat as I am.
C.E. Chaffin's Questions:
Does this transmit the experience of middle-age weight gain?
And is it funny?