Psycho Therapy

I sized-up Doctor Fear and he sized-me-up. How do psychiatrists measure things? Feelings fluctuate like the ocean tides, but they’re not regular—they’re like storms, or crop circles we don’t understand.

“Why should I trust you to solve my problems?” I asked.

“Because you’re afraid,” Doctor Fear said. “And nobody you talk to, understands you. That’s a frightening place to be.”

“Where?”

“A Place with no name.”

“Are you sure you can’t read minds?”

“When you’ve been alive as long as I have, the answers to the big questions become obvious.”

“What should I do with my life? I try to put it on hold, but the years keep skipping by.”

“Well… I have a couple options for you,” Dr. Fear said. “You can take an agreed-upon risk each day, with a stipulation. This usually works. If it doesn’t, I’ll have to kill you.”

“What?”

“You heard me. If you are serious about the therapy I provide, you will need to sign your life over to me.”

“What’s the other option?” I asked.

“Plan B Pills. And no, they’re not to prevent pregnancy. They make you live forever, until you have to murder yourself to die. Most patients want to, after 150 years. The bridge is the best place. Immortality stretches you, like a man at the end of his rope, until he works-up the courage to do, whatever it is he wants to. Most, kill themselves, before they actually try. They don’t have enough fear, and plenty of time.”

“I’ll try Plan A.”

“Good choice. To do otherwise would be out of order.”

“What’s the risk I need to try?” I asked.

“Get lost, without any money, without any friends, and find your way back home.”

“What does that achieve?”

“Just do it, and you will know.”

“It will take me one hour, to lose you, in an unfriendly place. Give me your credit cards and your clothes, and put these on.” They looked like they belonged to the bum under the bridge.

“Now, I’ll drive you. And wear this mask.”

When I got out of the limousine, I was at a liberal arts college, with pale feminists, sunning themselves on an off-color lawn.

To be continued…

Doctor Fear

The sunset was like a forest fire, shooting through the trees—black points, growing to a red sky. I was driving through it—so close, and yet, so far from me. I just wanted to drive, and keep driving, like if I didn’t stop, I might arrive. Doctor Graves referred me to Doctor Fear. I know what you’re thinking, how could anyone have those names, but you can look ’em up in the yellow pages. The valley was commercialized. I’ve been told that accountants design buildings today—they are tacked up with efficiency of cost. That’s why there’s no taste. Nature, or the wide-open places are more beautiful than man will ever create, but I don’t worry about that.

I worry about darn near everything else. Dr. Fear is a psychiatrist, specializing in unique cases, like, the guy who never leaves his house, or the woman who never goes back home—she shops until sunrise. I can’t judge her though—I have my own addictions. You just want to give yourself to them, and bask in the glorious absurdity of life. If I’m walking straight and true, it feels like I’m walking somebody else’s line. It’s the worst kind of hypocrisy.

Fear’s office was sterilized, and air-conditioned. It smelled like, how filtered water, tastes.

His secretary was plump, with big bosoms. She reminded me of a nurse I never met, because she practiced 70 years ago.

“What’s your name, sir?” She asked.

“Charles.”

“And what year were you born?”

“1988.”

“Oh—there’s 10 years difference between our ages.”

I looked at her. She didn’t look older than me. “You’re younger, right?”

“I’m 24. Doctor Fear will see you now, and don’t worry—he’s not really a scarry man.”

I went into the office, and hung a right. I heard crying coming from Doctor Sorry’s room. I did find it easier to cry in the presence of a woman doctor. If it was a man, I felt like he might say, “Toughen up, you god damn coward!” but he never did. He listened and took notes on his yellow steno notepad.

When I asked him if I could see what he wrote, he told me, “It goes into your file. They are my own personal notes. Sorry.” His name was Doctor Lame. Okay, fine—I made that one up. I knocked.

“Come in.”

He looked how I imagined any psychiatrist should look, but this is extremely explainable. Young men grow up watching TV. They get it in their head, that a psychiatrist has a beard, and acts old, even if he’s young. Professionals study all manners of dress, until they put-on a costume based on their favorite TV characters. He was a cross between Hannibal Lecter and Sigmund Freud, although—he didn’t have a pipe.

I expected him to say, “Tell me about your mother,” or “nice suit.” I dressed for the occasion, but he said something more shocking, “You are afraid of moving on with your life, even though you realize your life will move on without you. You have Type A control issues, and you are stuck in vice.”

“Yes, your honor,” I said. “Oh—I mean, doctor.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t judge you. That was a Freudian slip. But I will listen to anything you want to tell me.”

“How did you read my mind?” I asked.

“Oh—that’s easy. You wrote it on your medical intake form.”

To be continued…

Commander Johannson Gets Pulled Over

I walked into the cornfield.

The wind was rustling the stocks, as if, they had something to say.

I pushed between them, and there, in the center, was a perfect circle.

I stared into the clouds, and saw a silver saucer ascending.

I blinked, and it was gone.

It started to rain. I ran to the barn, and opened the double doors.

There was my red biplane, all gassed-up, and ready to go. I use it for crop dusting, but now, I had a different purpose in mind.

I wanted to see, if my eyes had deceived me.

I pulled the propeller, and took a swig of whiskey, I kept under the seat.

I put on my yellow raincoat, and pushed the throttle forward.

The buzz cut the humid air like butter, as I taxied onto the dirt road.

I went up.

It’s a feeling of power, when you become weightless, above the ground.

You could crash, and death would greet you, like a best friend, but nobody tells you what to do up there—aside from your radio. I turned that off.

My goggles were collecting raindrops, as I got higher and higher.

There was a strong cross-wind, so that I felt like an autumn leaf with a propeller, flying up, rather than falling down to the ground.

I went into the clouds, where a pie, was cut from the sky, but I didn’t see anything. I circled around, and came back down, into a dive.

The runway was where I left it, and I was getting ready to land, when I heard a voice.

“Commander Johannson—we need you, to lead our squadron.”

Was it just my imagination?

But then I looked to my right and saw the alien craft floating next to me.

The silver saucer was like a traffic cop, pulling me over.

I landed, and instantly felt better, being on the ground.

To be continued…

Old Man, Young Man

the old

can’t fathom the young

and the young

can’t fathom the old

“Time goes faster, the older you get,” the young man said to the old

and the old man looked at the young man and asked

“How old are you?”

Poetry King Does it Again!

How Long Can You Hold Your Breath?

I’ve only been following Poetry King for about a month now. He or She Surprises Me! This poem had me holding my breath. It seems so negative, but do I detect dry humor? Let me know what you think. I think Poetry King has done it Again!

Smiles and Scars

A great big cut through the face

just a long smile that doesn’t stop

like a tired road

that laughs

at nothing funny.

Humor covers our pain

and smiles keep us silent

it’s a toughness

a torment

a lack of touch

and then the healing begins

like a fabric of fake feelings

until we smile wide-open

cracking our masks

beneath fake faces

of false happiness.

Our insides show

because we smiled

wide-open.

I’m a Charmer

If I was a snake charmer

I’d try to charm something else

they strike the warm-blooded and happy

they slither in the dark

where I can’t see them

I can be charming, but I’m not very good at it

I’ve been bitten several times

and the venom circulates within me

Ask a snake how they became a snake

and they’ll hsss at you

the pit is not fair

the sneakiest shed their scales

and when they spy their skin

they can’t deny

what they are

I’ve been getting colder

and it’s not just the weather outside

warm

happy

healthy

people

keep running by

and I hsss at them

I’m a charmer.

Aphorisms on Dealing with Stress and Crazy People

1.

God keeps giving me chances

and I don’t take them.

It’s enough for me

to feel good in the dark.

2.

God gives me an escape plan

and I rest inside my cell

smoking a cigarette

and waiting for no moon.

3.

What they know about stress…

They know stress steals happiness

They know stress causes strokes

They know stress is stressful

What they don’t know about stress…

It isn’t real,

and yet,

you can see people acting stressed.

4.

It is a glorious feeling

to rise above negativity

like a hot air balloon

ascending above a volcano.

I would rather be on vacation

than living in hell.

It’s a choice of the mind.

5.

The silver knight ran away from the dragon

for fear of being eaten.

The black knight ran towards the dragon

Why?

The dragon was guarding gold

and the black knight had never tasted dragon before.

6.

Hostages on the 14th floor

The previous negotiator talked to the terrorists for 30 hours straight

until he had a nervous breakdown.

The new negotiator didn’t negotiate.

“It’s beautiful blue skies out here,” he said.

“Give us our fucking money or we push a woman out the window.”

“Let’s see if the bitch will fly.”

For 50,000 dollars a year, it’s not worth it to get emotionally invested in your work.

Invested Stress

Causes a Crash

If they pay you more money to feel miserable

tell them to jam it.

7.

There are no consoling words you can say to a paranoid person

they don’t listen to you

they listen to the tape inside their head

It’s a horrible horrible horrible horrible recording

and the more you listen to them

the more they suspect you are horrible.

their eyes lack love

it hurts me to look into them

it causes me to question my own happiness

and the meaningfulness of my pain

That’s the difference between me and them

I can find meaning in my suffering

but they can’t, and all they want

is an absence

they don’t want to show-up on difficult days

I look forward to them

It’s God’s chance, He keeps giving to me

and I escape the concentration camp of my own mind.

I focus on what matters…

all the rest

belong to the wolves

howling at the full moon.

On the Futility of Existence (this poem is too long, but so is life)

Oh,

the young don’t know

what it’s like to be old

and when I say old, I don’t mean 90

I mean, 40. When the dreams fall back to earth

like dead leaves, beautiful

but quickly

turning into compost and rot.

At 16, the girls can hypnotize the guys with G-strings, and short shorts, and even sweats

but after that

what they have between their legs, ceases to be a mystery, and even male virgins who read too many books, understand it theoretically, like a doctor’s exam, or a sucker fish, that lives in the South Pacific.

Men don’t want to read it

because it’s formulaic.

What women think is a personality, is a mental disorder

the universe goes from order to disorder

from beauty to chaos

so, this makes sense.

College degrees and careers

get finalized.

You can practice the piano until you are blue in the face, but Fuer Elise

will sound like cats humping each other, or killing each other

and all you can do is admire

those who perspire

and make it.

Getting old is the shits

and you aren’t getting any better. Your organic gray matter is wrinkling. Your technique is sloppy.

You’ve learned how to do it the wrong way for so long, that doing it the right way

is a foreign tongue you don’t want to kiss, and you can’t cut out.

Everything might as well be Greek, and you’re a bad Roman

ignorant, because you’ve spent too much time in the vomitorium

going to parties, drinking, trying to reign in some bravery.

Your destiny is like

paper lanterns, floating into the night sky

like the Hindenburg, burning up.

You can play chess until you checkmate yourself

Food has been tried and tried and tried

Experiences become the same

People don’t surprise you

Procrastination is inevitable

to do something on time is to do it wrong, over and over again, like a perfect routine

People become perfect

there is no sublime.

Oh,

it exists for some

those privileged elites

with organic gray matter and electrical storm clouds of thought,

but there’s no catching up to them now

you’re a fat 300-pound dad, chasing after a Kenyan.

You have solidified like lead

You’ve been drinking it in the water.

Your dream is being able to do what you love all day

but you wake up

and start pissing it away. No writing gets done. No poems shoot out of your fingertips, like firing squads.

You read Nietzsche, and don’t understand him

but that makes sense, because you can barely understand your co-workers.

I either have to say, “Could you repeat that?” or give some innocuous reply, like

“I’ll see about that,” said in a serious tone of voice, while the women in my training laugh at me

because I said something totally inappropriate, while trying to pass the moment with an enema.

My mannerisms are constricted. I don’t have a bed-side manner. I hand them a bedpan and say, “Do your worst.”

things could be worse, they will get worse

just give it time.

The Night Janitor Stops Smoking and Tells Me the Secret to His Health

The Night Janitor has it all figured-out.

I listen to the same facts and figures, during my trainings

and it’s all semantics—a new way of saying the old,

but the Night Janitor has new information…

He’s trying to quit smoking,

and he has a theory on how to do it.

“I keep track of the number of cigarettes I smoke,” he said.

“On Wednesday, I smoked 5. On Thursday, I smoked 7. Today, I’ve only smoked 2.”

“That’s great,” I said. “Have you ever worn a patch?”

“A nicotine patch? Those don’t work for me. You know, they say quitting smoking is harder than quitting heroin. I have to do it, cold turkey. In 2005, I quit altogether, but 5 years later, I was at a bar with my friend and he said he was going for a smoke. I asked if I could bum a cigarette from him, without even thinking about it, and I started again.”

“So, you don’t feel the urge to smoke all of the time—only when you’re triggered?” I asked.

“That’s right,” he said. “I’ll tell you something else too. Since I’ve quit smoking, my cough has gone away. It could be the absence of arsenic in my lungs, but it might also be, that I’ve begun to use hydrogen peroxide.”

“How do you use it?” I asked.

“I put a drop in a glass of water and drink it three times a day. I do that every day and add a drop, until I reach 32 drops, three times a day.”

“I see,” I said. “And what does that do for you?”

“Bacteria and disease cannot exist in an oxygen-rich environment. The hydrogen increases the oxygen in the body. It must be food-grade, and if you do it, it will prevent sickness.”

I looked at his face. His hair was white, and combed back, over his skull. His teeth were white, despite smoking for 50 years. His skin was white, without color, translucent.

“I’m glad it works for you,” I said.

“I’ve even taken to shooting it up my nose, like steroid nasal spray,” he said.

“Wow.”

“And do you want to know something else?”

“What?” I asked.

“In the early 2000s, I contracted a nasty case of herpes from a whore. It was virulent, spreading all over my private parts. I went to see the doctor to get a blood test and he confirmed what it was. Right around that time, I started gargling with hydrogen peroxide, and ingesting it three times a day. My herpes cleared up. I went back to the same doctor and asked for a blood test.

‘You don’t have any STDs,’ my doctor told me. ‘What did you use to cure yourself?’

‘I found Jesus,’ I said, but that was a lie. What I really did, I kept to myself. If doctors found out about this, they would take hydrogen peroxide off the shelves faster than pharmaceutical companies deal-out drugs. It’s the cure, man, and they don’t want us to have free healthcare.”

“I haven’t been sick in three years,” I said.

“Wow—how do you manage that?” He asked me.

“I’m not telling.”

“Good for you.”

We fist-bumped, and he went back to scrubbing the toilets.

I went back to being trained.

I didn’t learn anything new from the guys with the Ph.Ds.,

but the night janitor,

is a fountain of knowledge for me.