I tried to write myself into enlightenment
the way a psychiatrist can sometimes teach you
to recondition that brain slug in the skull
to use its own poison as a defense,
but only so you can end up turning language
into shadows and light so easily
it becomes too automatic
to drop or slip over a gear and just be spontaneous,
by which I mean
I no longer know how to cheer myself up.
Now, learning how to suffer and break
and be constantly delayed
while doing something as everyday as taking out the trash
feels like a crazy kind of recreation.
Just this morning I cursed some spent coffee grounds
for getting on my hand,
and stood the bag back up four times
to keep it from evading into the street
and playing chicken with a Subaru,
only to start blaming it for tiring my back,
giving me shortness of breath,
and stopping me
from approaching the bathroom more comfortably,
since now I had to peg at negative crutch speed
4 times later than expected.
Balancing on my one good foot on the curb
like a palm tree about to blow over before a storm,
I started laughing uncontrollably
and I think this is because
I realized how hard I gave it to myself
doing even the simplest things.
I thought I was a kind and patient person,
and I am,
I’m the pinnacle of patience and understanding,
that is until you take walking out of the equation,
come to find out.
But priding myself on being such a self-reliant person,
how could I not upend my head?
So I guess
I’m really still a big baby with mood swings
still with a head that can barely hold itself up after all,
and whatever puke bib I thought I’d outgrown
never really stopped catching lunch
but just got covered over with big logocentric signifiers of
being better and doing better,
and even doing not better, better,
which seeing how that’s out of the equation now,
and will continue to be for months
while my Achilles tendon taffies back into a calve,
I have to ask: How could I ever possibly get better?