for hasty interventions
by loved ones. Or Fate.
Three
people, with nothing
at all in common
except age, proximity,
and a wish to die.
Three
tapestries, tattered
at the edges and come
unwoven to reveal
a single mutual thread.
The Thread
Wish
you could turn off
the questions, turn
off the voices,
turn off all sound.
Yearn
to close out
the ugliness, close
out the filthiness,
close out all light.
Long
to cast away
yesterday, cast
away memory,
cast away all jeopardy.
Pray
you could somehow stop
the uncertainty, somehow
stop the loathing,
somehow stop the pain.
Act
on your impulse,
swallow the bottle,
cut a little deeper,
put the gun to your chest.
Conner
Arrival
The glass doors swing open,
in perfect sync, precisely
timed so you don’t have
to think. Just stroll right in.
I doubt it’s quite as easy
to turn around and walk
back outside, retreat to
unstable ground. Home turf.
An orderly escorts me down
spit-shined corridors, past
tinted Plexiglas and closed,
unmarked doors. Mysteries.
One foot in front of the other,
counting tiles on the floor so
I don’t have to focus the blur
of painted smiles, fake faces.
A mannequin in a tight blue
suit, with a too-short skirt
(and legs that can wear it),
in a Betty Boop voice halts us.
I’m Dr. Boston. Welcome to
Aspen Springs. I’ll give you
the tour. Paul, please take his
things to the Redwood Room.
Aspen Springs. Redwood Room.
As if this place were a five-star
resort, instead of a lockdown
where crazies pace. Waiting.
At Least
It doesn’t have a hospital
stink. Oh yes, it’s all very
clean, from cafeteria chairs
to the bathroom sink. Spotless.
But the clean comes minus
the gag-me smell, steeping
every inch of that antiseptic
hell where they excised
the damnable bullet. I
wonder what Dad said when
he heard I tried to put myself
six feet under—and failed.
I should have put the gun
to my head, worried less
about brain damage, more
about getting dead. Finis.
Instead, I decided a shot
through the heart would
make it stop beating, rip
it apart to bleed me out.
I couldn’t even do that
right. The bullet hit bone,
left my heart in one piece.
In hindsight, luck wasn’t
with me that day. Mom
found me too soon, or my
pitiful life might have ebbed
to the ground in arterial flow.
I thought she might die too,
at the sight of so much blood
and the thought of it staining
her white Armani blouse.
Conner, what have you done?
she said. Tell me this was just
an accident. She never heard
my reply, never shed a tear.
I Don’t Remember
Much after that, except
for speed. Ghostly red lights,
spinning faster and faster,
as I began to recede from
consciousness. Floating
through the ER doors,
frenzied motion. A needle’s
sting. But I do remember,
just before the black hole
swallowed me, seeing Mom’s
face. Her furious eyes
followed me down into sleep.
It’s a curious place, the
Land of Blood Loss and
Anesthesia, floating through it
like swimming in sand. Taxing.
After a while, you think you
should reach for the shimmering
surface. You can’t hold your
breath, and even if you could,
it’s dark and deep and bitter
cold, where nightmares and truth
collide, and you wonder if death
could unfold fear so real. Palpable.
So you grope your way up into
the light, to find you can’t
move, with your arms strapped
tight and overflowing tubes.
And everything hits you like
a train at full speed. Voices.
Strange faces. A witches’ stewpot
of smells. Pain. Most of all,
pain.
Tony
Just Saw
A new guy check in. Tall,
built, with a way fine face,
and acting too tough to tumble.
He’s a nutshell asking to crack.
Wonder if he’s ever let a guy
touch that pumped-up bod.
They gave him the Redwood
Room. It’s right across
from mine—the Pacific
Room. Pretty peaceful in
here most of the time, long
as my meds are on time.
Ha. Get it? Most of the time,
if my meds are on time. If you
don’t get it, you’ve never
been in a place like this,
never hung tough from one
call till the next.
Wasted. That’s the only way
to get by in this “treatment
center.” Nice name for a loony
bin. Everyone in here is crazy
one way or another. Everyone.
Even the so-called doctors.
Most of ’em are druggies.
Fucking loser meth freaks.
I mean, if you’re gonna
purposely lose your mind,
you want to get it back some
day. Don’t you? Okay, maybe not.
I Lost My Mind
A long time ago, but it
wasn’t exactly my idea.
Shit happens, as they say,
and my shit literally hit
the fan. But enough sappy
crap. We were talking drugs.
I won’t tell you I never tried
crystal, but it really wasn’t
my thing. I saw enough
people, all wound up, drop
over the edge, that I guess
I decided not to take that leap.
I always preferred creeping
into a giant, deep hole where
no bad feelings could follow.
At least till I had to come up
for air. I diddled with pot first, but
that tasty green weed couldn’t drag
me low enough. Which mostly
left downers, “borrowed” from
medicine cabinets and kitchen
cabinets and nightstands.
Wherever I could find them.
And once in a while—not often,
because it was pricey and tough
to score—once in a while, I
tumbled way low, took a ride
on the H train. Oh yeah,
that’s what I’m talkin
g about.
A hot shot clear to hell.
I Wasn’t Worried
About getting hooked, though
I knew plenty of heroin addicts.
I didn’t do it enough, for one
thing. Anyway, I figured
I’d be graveyard rot before
my eighteenth birthday.
It hasn’t quite worked out
that way, though I’ve got
a few months to go. And
once I get out of here, I’ll
have a better shot at it. Maybe
next time I won’t try pills.
I mean, you’d think half a bottle
of Valium would do the trick.
Maybe it would have, but I had
to toss in a fifth of Jack Daniels.
Passed out, just as I would
have expected. What I didn’t
expect was waking up, head stuck
to the sidewalk, mired in puke.
Oh yeah, I heaved the whole
fucking mess. Better yet, guess
who happened by? You got it.
One of the city’s finest.
Poor cop didn’t know what
to do—clean me up, haul
me in, or puke himself. So
he did all three, only dispatch
said to take me to the ER.
Hospital first. Loony bin
later.
Vanessa
Cloistered
I can’t remember
when it has snowed
so much, yards
and yards of lacy ribbons,
wrapping the world in white.
Was it three years ago? Ten?
Memory is a tenuous thing,
like a rainbow’s end
or a camera with a failing lens.
Sometimes my focus
is sharp, every detail
clear as the splashes
of ice, fringing the eaves;
other times it is a hazy
field of frost, like the meadow
outside my window.
I think it might be a meadow.
A lawn? A parking lot?
Is it even a window
I’m looking through,
or only cloudy panes
of vision, opening
on drifts of ivory
linens—soft cotton,
crisp percale—
my snow just
a blizzard of white
noise?
I Hate This Feeling
Like I’m here, but I’m not.
Like someone cares.
But they don’t.
Like I belong somewhere
else, anywhere but here,
and escape lies just past
that snowy window,
cool and crisp as the February
air. I consider the streets
beyond, bleak as the bleached
bones of wilderness
scaffolding my heart.
Just a stone’s throw away.
But she’s out there,
stalking me, haunting me.
I know she can’t get me
in here. Besides, I’m too
tired to pick myself up
and make a break for it.
So I just sit here, brain
wobbling. Tipping.
Tripping on Prozac.
I wonder if they give
everyone Prozac on their twice-daily
med deliveries.
Do they actually try to
diagnose first, or do they
think everyone is depressed,
just by virtue of being here?
My arm throbs
and I look at the bandage,
a small red stain
beginning to slither.
Did I pop a stitch?
Wouldn’t that be luscious?
The First Cut
Wasn’t the deepest.
No, not at all.
It was like the others,
a subtle rend of anxious skin,
a gentle pulse of crimson,
just enough to hush the demons
shrieking inside my brain.
But this time they wouldn’t
shut up. Just kept on
howling, like Mama,
when she was in a bad way.
Worst thing was, the older
I got, the more I began to see
how much I resembled Mama,
falling in and out of the blue,
then lifting up into the white.
That day I actually
thought about howling.
So I gave myself to the knife,
asked it to bite a little
harder, chew a little deeper.
The hot, scarlet rush
felt so delicious
I couldn’t stop there.
The blade might have reached
bone, but my little
brother, Bryan,
barged into the bathroom,
found me leaning against
Grandma’s new porcelain
tub, turning its unstained
white pink.
You should
have heard
him scream.
Conner
Pain Isn’t the Worst Thing
At least you know you’re not
just a shadow, darkening
someone’s wall, a silhouette
thrust haphazardly into their lives.
My fingers trace the sunken
scar as I pace the plain room,
counting steps from near wall
to far, right to left. Eight by ten.
Eighty square feet to call my
own for the next how many
days? Eighty square feet, with no
television or phone, only two
tiny beds, a closet, and one
vinyl chair near the window—
a window that doesn’t open,
not even a crack for air.
Two beds. Does that mean I
might get a roommate soon?
Some paranoid schizo, rambling
on through the suffocating night?
Well, hey. Maybe he’d think
that he was the one who drew
the short straw, having to share
a room with some totally
whacked-out freak. I wonder
how long it would take him
to realize I’m right as sin—it’s
the rest of the world that’s wrong.
I’m not even sure how I
qualify for admission to
Aspen Springs. Does wanting
to die equal losing your mind?
It Doesn’t Seem
So incredibly insane to me.
In fact, it seems courageous
to, for once in your life, make
others react to a plan you set
in motion. Not that I meant
to cause anyone pain, only
to make them realize that
everyone has flaws. Even me.
Especially me. Hell, I’m
so flawed I wound up here,
with sixty defective humans.
Odd, to think I made the A-list.
I open the dresser drawers,
start to put away my neatly
folded clothes. No Sears. No
Wal-Mart, but Macy’s. Nordstrom’s.
I can see my mom, stalking
aisle after aisle of designer
jeans, intent on the latest
style, perfect eye-catching fit.
I hear her tell the silicone
saleslady, Nothing for me
today. I’m shopping for my
son. He fails to comprehend
fashion. If it wasn’t for me,
I swear he’d choose nothing
but T-shirts and khaki. Now
where will I find the Calvin Klein?
I Reach
For a lavender Ralph Lauren
shirt, ironed into submission,
collar starched into crisp, straight
Vs, no hint of dirt or sweat.
Back at school, clothes like this
made me the cream of my senior
class, at least in the eyes of
twisted dream girls and cheerleaders.
Oh yes, Mom’s expensive tastes
went a long way toward getting
me laid. Did she have a clue
that all those dollars spent on
haute couture allowed her sweet
young son to feed his appetite
for carnal pleasure—to divvy
himself among a stable of fillies?
As the vile green walls defy
my stare, some evil makes me
wad Lauren shirt and Jockey
underwear into a wrinkled lump.
Okay, maybe that’s a little
crazy. Maybe I belong here,
after all. Maybe crazy is
preferable to staying strong
when you just want to break down
and weep. But big boys don’t cry.
Do they? So instead I’ll just
keep jamming clothes into drawers,
grinning.
Tony
When You Try
The big S, the first thing
they do is lock you away
by yourself, like you
might try to do someone
else in, ’cause you didn’t
do yourself good enough.
Then some lame nurse’s aide
checks in on you every
fifteen minutes, probably
hoping you’ve found a way
to finish yourself off and save
them a whole lot of trouble.
After a couple of days
Impulse Page 2
