My name is Robert. I’m bipolar.
A manic-depressive mound of mole hair.
Met with the doc in her underground control lair.
She prescribed an antipsychotic,
a dopamine antagonist,
for the brain where all the maggots live,
eating holes in tissue of American static laxative.
“Let me take out my pad and scribble a few lines
so I can bill you $1500 for five minutes of my time.
There’s just one catch,” looks over her glasses,
“You’ll have the vocabulary of the privileged classes.”
Use it to your advantage, but watch those country roots.”
She stands up, grabs a book, and opens halfway through.
“Here’s the diagnosis you’ll give to the future you:
‘You internalize aspirations of the masses,
A strong gut without the facts yet,
fighting with time,
lacking patience and peace of mind.
You’ve got to school yourself
before you get your half-baked brain checked.
Be careful with your intent
or you’ll spew verbal evidence—
the rotting excrements—
of maggots eating away
at the decay
of a once-great nation.’”
I stand and grab the book and say,
“I wrote this from the future,
meanwhile quacks like you
bound up human potential
with your psychobabble sutures.”
I pull down my pants,
shit in my hand,
and pile it on her desk.
“That’ll be ten-million dollars
for emotional distress.”