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you told me i wrote like sexton.
i was barefoot in the middle of the
psych ward, cutting off my hair
with a plastic fork, & you wanted
to talk about poetry.
fine. is it before or after i choke
myself on monoxide that you
expect me to fulfill your tragic
fantasies? shall i go from model
to nembutal to funeral, building
on my back the mythos you seek
to claim?
no, go on, tell me how my pain is
beautiful as you confess you cannot
bear your own. you think you know
madness, but i have seen things to
shrivel the fruit of your mind and
curdle the milk of your blood.
i am not your sexton, and you know
nothing of insanity. you may have
dipped your fingers in that river, boy,
but you have never drowned.
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