In the rehab place where wasted hearts
sleep too much like buried creatures
the nurse dispenses dreams from a cart
and the worst of us become the teachers
If you're feeling sentimental
aversion therapy works the best
and for something supplemental
try stuffing newspaper in your chest
We the burned, we the bruised
nod in our not-quite present way
shock-shelved inventory seldom used
but trotted out on holidays
A waitress serves the plates--we break them
to wake ourselves like catatonics;
we choose a new mistake at random
we the dazed romantic chronics.
_____________
for Word Garden Word List--Warren Zevon
Music: Damien Jurado Kansas City
Your description on rehab and what it does to the soul really resonates - far best to take the journey (if safe) on one's own. A brilliant poem and wishing much health, happiness and peace for the season - Jae
ReplyDeleteWhew, you definitely gave a dismal picture of rehab. I wouldn't doubt at all that the 'wasted hearts sleep too much.' And the nurse dispensing dreams from carts sickens me.
ReplyDeleteWhat alkie or addict ain't chronic, even when chronically recovering? Hearts are gonna dance, singly or in serial togethers or not again evers. Anyone taking a fearless inventory of this learns to keep the shoes shined and thoughts briny for the next knock knock?'s tickle juice. Even if it is just moonshine sung fine. Amen.
ReplyDelete"...we, the dazed romantic chronics" resonates. And you have captured the drab discouraged greyness of "the rehab place". The dispensed dreams and the waking "like catatonics" are so good. Such fine writing.
ReplyDeleteHere I see the dilemma every feeling person faces in the fight not to superimpose the wished for on the reality...we want what we want, and its hard not to make its mirage out of the refracted reality our starry eyes take in. I especially like the home truths here, in lines like "..the worst of us become the teachers.." and "we the bruised/
ReplyDeletenod in our not-quite present way.." and especially the hammer of the closing couplet. Just fine writing, Shay, of a mood, a feeling, a state of mind that is chronic to some of us (*looks at self*)for sure.
This comes alive in the last stanza, breaking the plates to wake ourselves from our stupor. To make new mistakes, a gift of what we have left of our souls.
ReplyDelete