Tales From The Fragile Balancing Act

I’m hearing one thing being asked of us Over and over, loud and clear, and, truly,  it seems simple enough. Yes, this request I’ve been hearing Asks that we all, right now,  “Shut the fuck up!” It’s really weird you can’t hear this  your words sound like you wish to know as you ask questions upon questions on and on to no end But stranger still, you immediately provide your own answers Without one hint of a pause between the two transforming question to rant Step One of hearing.... is shutting the fuck up! Can you imagine if Dirty Harry’s famous question-bit went: “Do you feel lucky, punk? Well do ya? Cause if you feel lucky it doesn’t make sense  to act like a savage a thug, running around with your thug friends Burning your own neighborhood, joining gangs, selling drugs How will this all end?  I mean, who even does that? Really?!” No. If you were in the theater watching this version Of the classic pre-curmudgeoney-Clint-Eastwood-flick,

“I’ll come for you when we’re ready” and with that the plump grandmother nurse is gone leaving behind only two swinging doors. Substantial enough evidence that she, in fact, was real.   Alone. Silence. I stare into my own frenzied eyes. Lazy light from fluorescents stammer. And inspire unhinged shadows across my face to dance.   As instructed, I struggle fitting tissue paper over my ears, around my sneakers.   Now, head to toe. Baby blue.   All around me steel shines and snarls. Crisp bed corners mock me. As orange-peel chemicals attack my nostrils — pillage my tongue. And all the while my trying toe taps And tries tap tapping time away. “A prayer then?”        But we don’t… “Perhaps a plea.”        Perhaps…   Yes. Everyone has to be all right. Please. I’ll never ask another thing.