Tuesday, January 3, 2017

Truth is, Doctor

Psychiatry – strange casuistry: to seek relief
within parameters it sets for psychic pain,
and paint with Rembrandt’s density and shadow
prospects of a Paradise regained – not of

the brain – but what it colonizes as the habitable
shores along what it conspires to define as
ineradicable channels of desire. Mired far from
any fire, safe in all its cool consuming mud,

as distant from the blood as outside layers of
a blubbered life preserver are from human skin,
and sin: pitting all its powers on a reasoned
conquest of “within”: quite a spin – or fetid swamp –

but hampered surely by the end-line dumpster
looming huge as we abandon every last refuge
and near the final Stop from where and when
we can't remember we had been at Go.

Truth is, Doctor, I don't want to know.


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