i was going to explain...but nvm.

A Hypomanic Stream of Thought

My pen can't keep up

with the words racing

and racing and racing

in my mind and out

of my ears, clouding

my vision like gnargles

getting stuck in a cloud

of electrons while the

chemistry snaps and sparks

but my cigarette won't light

so I grind my teeth and

drink some blood I found

in the back of the

refrigerator where I left

the giraffe after I took

out the elephant and

put it in the middle

of a room where I hid

in the shadow but a

fleeting feeling says

I can't keep them here-

it's inhumane- like the

dolphins who work

their nine to fives

sticking their bottled noses

into underwater minefields

to feed the information

to a man standing on a boat

unable to walk on water

because he probably stopped

going to church like I

stopped going to church when

the Elektra complex wore off

and I realized daddy

wasn't coming home and

it was just me and mommy

with the louse in my hair

and the worms under my skin

covered with the red bumps

that daddy's mommy gave me

before the cancer took her

and left me crying in the

bathroom with my favourite

cousin who is no longer

my best friend because things

get complicated and friends

get drunk so they can share

the feelings they really

don't have so you push them

out of the picture and press

a button too fast so you're

stuck looking at the blur

of your friends right

elbow where they walked

out of your life where

they no longer exist because

object permanence has suspended

itself for the time being-

however long that is because

i swear it's noon

and it has been for

about two weeks now

with the occasional

after lunch nap where

I wake up and realize

I'm late for French so

I drive to class where

it's all about j'etais

et j'atais et j'etais

but seriously-

qu'est-ce que j'etais?

je ne sais pas mais

je ne veux pas suivre.

because what i am now

works and works and

works everyday for thirteen

days of eternity brought

on by copious amounts

of espresso (america's cocaine)

that's never pure enough

because I don't have change

for a fake one-hundred dollar

bill so I give them a drink

but my oasis doesn't have

enough shade and they've

been driving all day

through the deserts of

Southern California whre

Mickey Mouse and Mexicans

alike provide whatever is missing

for the people who don't

know what they have

but I don't think we have

anything but they tell me

what I think is wrong so they

pump my blood full

of drugs that only work

if I don't take them and self-medicate

with a bottle, a bowl, and

a little blue pill- all

swimming inside my veins

putting my mind at ease by

duct taping synapses and

dendrites over the mouth

and around the wrists

so I can finally close

my eyes and sleep for

two hours before the

entire thing starts

all

over

again.