The News From My Bed*


"Got to keep the loonies on the path"--Pink Floyd

The news from my bed is that the wall is gone.
At least I think it is. Things tend to pull the old switcheroo on me lately.

There's a guy standing there, by the jagged concrete and snaky rebar. His shirt is open and he's holding a Burger King wrapper to his bloody forehead. He looks a little dazed--meds? Or bombs. Not sure.

I get up. Yeah, I can get up. Nothing buzzes, no orderly or bitchy nurse appears. No doctor from Bloomfield Hills ladling out patronizing bullshit. If it's bombs, I hope they blew his golf club all to hell and gone.

I say to bloody forehead guy, "Hey." He blinks, hesitates, then does the guy nod. Maybe I lost my mojo in here. I tilt my head, look up at him with my soulful fucking brown eyes. "'Sup?" His knees buckle and he goes down, half over what's left of the bottom of the wall. Okay so. I get up, look around. What else is gone is the secure doors. And Madison, my roommate. She's hung up in the broken glass of the nurse's station. Poor Maddy. I notice she's wearing my Mickey Mouse sweat pants. 

I fuck with my hair, step over the wall that isn't there, and Burger King guy. I'd help him if I could, but I'm just a loon, right? Before I can decide anything, this awful tremendously loud roar happens and then there's a concussion and dust blinding me. I'm on my ass without knowing how I got there. I hear a heavy vehicle going by me, close.  I get up, my left leg won't work and I drop hard on my tailbone. So, I don't know a good affirmation for all of this. I don't know how this makes me feel, except that my leg and my ass hurt. The dust clears and I can see the buildings on fire and a freaked-out cat with its back arched and eyes big as next Tuesday, crouching and yowling as the rockets land. You and me, Puss. It takes a minute, but I scoop her up and off we go, me limping bad, Puss in full what-the-fuck mode, the Russians or the Koreans or the Martians raining shit down on our heads, and us doubtless sending it right straight back to their fucking pagodas or whatever. Holy shit, Puss. And they say I'm crazy.
_______

*my title is a brazen rip-off, as per instructions HERE.

Day 11 of the April thang, and I'm still rockin'. 

 

Comments

Kerry O'Connor said…
You certainly rocked this one!
Cloudia said…
Yikes! Too raw! Meaning excellently done
Ellecee said…
Wow, apocalypse happening, you bring it to life with your fierce words,,,
Sherry Blue Sky said…
Oh. My. God. I had the same sort of night, only without the bombs...slow strangulation by climate change.......this is KICK ASS WRITING. Every fabulous word.
Susie Clevenger said…
Yes! Insane gets to fire weapons while a bed and bedlam is offered to those who get a diagnosis. God, I hate this is the direction we seem to be headed.
Isadora Gruye said…
Ohhh, loved the stream of consciousness here, and the swearing, and the russians. Also really liked the rich amount of detail you provide, but how you use it obscure and confuse. That was a really neat concept. It had this effect so that the more I knew about what was going on the less I understood. Which is exactly my sort of poem. Viva la!!!
Margaret said…
Save the kitty! :) Are you a cat person... I know you have a dog. Anyway, this is a crazy poem - if the news from the bed is this, you might want to get out of bed!
Kim M. Russell said…
That is some nightmare, Shay! I love the little details, such as Maddy wearing Mickey Mouse sweat pants – but how gruesome that she’s hung up in the broken glass of the nurse's station – and the feeling of helplessness in the words ‘but I'm just a loon, right?’ I’m so pleased the cat is safe.
'So, I don't know a good affirmation for all of this' made me grin. So did 'the Russians or the Koreans or the Martians raining shit down on our heads'. Congratulations on being able to be so apocalyptic and humorous at the same time.
hedgewitch said…
All too real in its surrealness--and what an interesting choice to write to--could hardly be more apposite. Am still chuckling over the Burger King Guy and the Mickey Mouse sweatpants--details like this are what make you a master, or mistress if you prefer, of twisting words into that elusive spark of genius called art.
Wow! There is too much news from your bed. I think I'll stay in mine.
Great poem, Shay!