got them again, the dreads,
the "why did I fuck up my life
middle of the night" sweats.
I haven't stopped taking my meds,
but I've started buying things I don't need
like the Bose Acoustical Wave Sound
System advertised on TV as the world's
best and a dozen or two dozen books
to add to the stack I bought last week
and haven't read because my mind is whacked.
I start one but after a page or two
I remember the list of things I meant to do
and put it down to go find the list
and brood over what I haven't done
which includes reading that book.
And the high-tech angel food cake pan
that I also saw on TV which goes
straight from freezer to oven
though I've never made an angel food cake
but I always wanted to so someday I might
since now at least I have the pan.
And the old magic mind is back
like thinking I can make the refrigerator quiet
by thinking I can make the refrigerator quiet.
And I've started up talking to strangers again
telling them more than they need to know
(or want to) about who I am (as if I knew).
I'm cluttered with random lines
from books on meditation
from books on writing
from novels on murderers.
So it seems in order to meditate
I must first become a murderer
and to write I must first fall in love.
Though I've read the biochemical explanation
about this not-at-all unique condition
I'm ashamed to be unable to transcend it.
I'm starting a new list
of ways I've messed up my life
with specific examples
and I'm going to buy a pack of smokes
though I gave that up long ago
but now I need them for company
as I sit by the window all night
waiting for the night visitor
or the murderer and murmuring
oh, yeah, oh, yeah, oh, yeah.