9. AL’s poems to CW

May 7, 2018

Play Mad

I have gone stark raving mad again.

This time with plays. 

I am writing one: 

“With Ghosts on Both Shoulders”

I am editing another: 

“Oh, my Tortured Soul”

In the wee hours I finished:

“I’ve got Two Grams of Weed,” 

Not my best.

But are any of these?

Since “Schizoaffective Scheherazade and the Reno 911”?

Or it’s follow-up,

“Schizoaffective Awakening”?

This is strictly

A quantity over quality

Sweatshop of one.


I feel possessed

By Antonin Artaud

I feel as if the ghost

Of William Shakespeare

Willy Shakes,

As it were

Tugging my sleeve

Urging me:

“Just keep writing

 Play after play

Eventually you’ll get a “MacBeth.”

That’ll make them forget

“Alls Well that Ends Well.”

So I persist.


The ranting of ghosts

Is barely audible

Wanting me

To write their speeches

Incessant all day.

I am but a microphone

Of the dead

My madness

Pounding keys into the abyss

No one will ever read.


It is safe, there.

In the abyss

Of my iCloud




A dead letter office

Of the soul.

So many novels sit there

Like letters to God.



For who would want

To read,


Or act

In a play

Taking place inside 

Only the House of the Rising Sun?

With only one live character?

And all the other’s,

Ghost hallucinations?


Or the gentle guiding

Voice in my head?

It’s part of my brain,

Called the Amygdala.

Knowing that what

Speaks to me

Is only another

Part of the broken brain

Is a comfort.



My personal FBI agent

Makes a cameo

Or the CIA Paranormal unit

Bustles in all official.

Imaginary, of course,

For what are the stakes

In the plays

Where the ghosts

Never leave

My living room?


They have something of Beckett

Like a hanky hanging out of a pocket

So many plays

All so insular

My psychosis is my medium

As incurable, 

Might as well.


It’s what Antonin Artaud

Would have wanted.


Despite a mounting

Sense of futility

I persist.

For hasn’t all

This writing


Been futile

In the end.


Are You Alarmed?

If after reading

The previous poem

Your alarm bells are ringing?


Here are words of comfort:

Yes, my life is sustainable.

Yes, I eat, sleep and bathe.

Yes, I have an excellent psychiatrist.

Yes, I take all of my meds.

Yes, I am on SSDI Disability.

With chronic psychiatric conditions

For which there are no cures

Only management



As I wait to die

A natural death

Of old age.


I am put out to pasture

Tasked to fill the abyss with words


I hear the groundskeepers radio

Rise in a Blondie song I love

This is disabled joy.

This is as good as it’s going to get

Please leave me alone

To write here in peace

For great is my joy.