A Poet’s Thssorder ( Poem )

The psychotherapist. Psycho-therap-ist. The psycho , the-rapist. Diagnosed me. “You have a disorder Javier.” I should have known I was guilty. “What is it Doc? Am I sick?” “ Well, I wouldn’t say sick, just a disorder.” “I wouldn’t say liking big tits is a disorder Doc.” “ Stop it Javier. I’m trying to explain to you something serious.” “Ok, fine. I have a thssorder, so what if I’m missing a couple of teeth?”

“ Javier..”

“Don’t call me that. Call me Jack.”

“ You have schizophrenia Jack, it would seem it runs in the family.”

“That’s a funny thssorder. Makes me feel like a gum drop, a drooping, dropping gum drop.”

“ I’m going to prescribe to you some medication that I think will help with that.”

“ But I-mmuh poet Doc!”

The orphan is a poet, born with a sore throat and missing teeth. Pour some honey! My throat is itchy. Poor words with rags. I love you too honey!

the poor is pouring

but the pouring is so poor!

I’m boiling, Jack is boiling.

Javier’s dead Doc.

There’s no thssorder.

dysorder,

disorder,

thisorder.

“Can’t you smell the bees Doc? I’m swelling inside!”

If anything, Jack is an egg. Omelets are funny.

“Ahmm-let’s, play!”

“ I’m serious Jack, you have schizophrenia”.

“But you’re an egg too DOC! You’re an egg too!”

the words have all simmered this way

love is foaming over

I am a toad eating your toast on a Sunday Morning.

A complete reckoning without revelation

only ribbit-naations.

People are so damn afraid of leaping.

“ Look, how I high can jump Doc!”

“Get off my desk Jack!”

no, you’re the one with the disorder.