AT THE PSYCHIATRIST’S OFFICE

By John Grey

1

A charge of “who am I?” –

no immunity in this court –

the hiatus between blood and nerve,

engaging in conversation,

an antigenic substance,

archaic, the porous,

when you put weight on it

it oozes sorrow –

he asks questions

as if seizing you by the throat –

his face haunts

like a camera with the ability

to form antibodies,

compressed and contracting –

whatever you mutter,

you cannot think of a better word,

don’t budge an inch

though your emotions will not hold together

and you keep spouting evidence

to which the past is attached like muscle,

brutally, embarrassingly, exquisitely specific –

you dare yourself

to extend toward beginning,

in a bid for the possessed.

to understand its own meaning –

it takes guts,

and antibodies

the wiles to escape a locked room

or beat back the mind’s intruders –

there is no real answer,

not world order, not good manners,

just a fear,

a magnified portrait,

a picture of yourself

that’s always being taken,

an old expression approaching from the south,

a trembling ardor,

all perceptions drained

from one person to another –

a potential explosion of one kind or another –

put an eye to the lens,

you feel stranded in your own renaissance,





2

the end of each thought

never an emphatic “no”,

just a glassy surface

and a reflection you can’t refuse,

shorn of its safety net,

in the kind of solitude

that’s oblivious to the one feeling it,

beginning with the fleshy parts,

ending up as successive sensations

suffering from too much breath,

a reaction between antibodies,

and dreams threatened from within –

with his probing,

 no sensation is impartial,

everything transformed

into people and activities,

unsurpassed among

your voluntary and involuntary reactions.

© 2020 John Grey

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