first psychosis

miami, my 17th year...

too many words and
no words at all
my big head sits squat on
the floor near the door
but they have closed that door
locked it up good
and the key i have is old
and smiling broad, teapot in hand
they bid me sit on
a round orange beanbag
my new neighbors, their living room
still paneled with boxes
and they sit around me like
a greek chorus, with words and
no words and looks that could kill
with curiosity and kindness and
the ease of their one-liners
and i muted by madness

i cannot speak, can barely
think out loud in my head
a head so big it's hollow
for i hold secrets too
thick to just spit out
cruel whispers that have spread
into my nerves and fibers like
the wind through dried-up
leaves on a lawn
and they've stuffed me like
a scarecrow, every inch of my skin
stuffed and bloated with
pine needles and cones
the smell of fresh earth
emanating from my pores
the smell of earthworms
pink and tangled like
a pile of umbilical cords
i the newborn, and not six dead
kittens the cat who last month
adopted me delivered on the porch
or my own dead one left in new york
or the three dead-eyed strangers
at the house of pancakes who so
kindly offered me a night of repose
but i the stillborn still ranging
through the dark tunnel
afraid of my own shadow
afraid of the new neighbors who
have invited me in to sit

but i cannot stay long, no
for they can read my thoughts
they've zeroed in on my blackness
as i place my head in their
fat hands and forget my shoes
and suddenly flee back to my room
try to find the old me in
that nuthouse of brain and body
with cockroaches the size of mice
and all my existential dramas on
the shelf, the books the only one
i ever loved taught me to discern
and now forgetting to say goodbye
forgetting to even try the niceties
straw and pine needles flying in
all directions as i flee their
rhetorical questions

Painting: Frederick Sandy's Medusa