On pathology

I am pathological, I hear. The lady
whose ancestors were enslaved
by syphilitic plantation owners
(no relation) told me so in kind words
when she had a word with me. Then,
the Mormonite whom I think was hired
for her bedside manner, Rorschach skills,
and eyes that watered on command
gave me a stone I could hold on to
(since otherwise it was said I could
hold on to nothing). Bless her, she told
me I am a survivor, even though,
paradoxically, she belongs to two cults:
what Young kindled in the burned-
down district, and that discipline
for fiends we euphemistically call
psychiatry. Then, when I drank
mouthwash (even the bums know
what the brown bottle is for)
instead of bourbon, like a normal
fucked up American, I saw a vision
when I fasted on water a week:
blue-skinned Mary stumbled to me
and said, “This is what every saint
has done: engendered misery
for the sake of mankind,” as if
torturing yourself is some kind
of gospel. Well, spread the good news.
I am pathological: there is a dollar
or two in my pocket to prove it.


~ by Jeremy on June 27, 2013.

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