Self-cleansing While Cleaning That Rubber Room
It's not the first time it's happened.
A co-worker from the cleanroom
stopped by the break room at work
to remind me about how shitty my job is
frankly, I don't know what the big deal is.
They see me sweep, they see me mop
they see me take out the trash.
They say
"Every day?" Man, I would go nuts.
I think: Been there.
This guy today though,
he said "I still can't believe
you work in here by yourself, in silence,
nothing but these sterile white walls for
comfort... it's like a psych ward."
I said: Psych wards are noisier.
And more colorful.
He started to ask "How would you know?"
But chuckled half-way through.
It isn't proper that my coworkers know
That I've been a patient
a ward of the state.
A slave to psychopharmacology
to psychotherapy
to psychos
So I let him think I was joking.
I thought hard, then, in my solitude
as the mop dragged 'cross the floor
about Ed, the stroke victim, who
had no business being in the psych
wing - but no other place in the state
would take him. Ed knew nothing else,
but to scream for help at intervals of 15
seconds. From the moment he woke,
to the moment he slept, he would
shuffle in laps around the psych ward
screaming "HELP!" as loudly as he could.
He was old. Toward the end of his life.
If ever there were a candidate for
pillow-smothering, it would be him,
after a week and a half of occupying the same
wing with him at the hospital. I was
discharged a few days later, which gave me
time to re-evaluate my stance...
I thought of John, the pastor
who poured over scripture,
counting his rosary,
as though he were feverishly reading
the Bible in the hopes of reaching
revelation and rapture more quickly.
He had a nasty habit of trying to
open his wrists - He wanted to know
the other realm. He couldn't wait for
the Lord to tell him it was his time. He
knew the grandeur of Earth, of mortal
reality, and felt himself not worthy.
Last time I saw him was at the outpatient
clinic, and as enthralled as I was
to see him years after he had been
released, when I went up to greet him,
he sobbed as the admittance papers
were signed and he was being walked,
with his head bowed, as if in revery or
silent recognition, that his fate for the
next few weeks entailed a small room
limited, supervised contact with sharp things,
and daily group therapy.
I think of Eric from Ghana, who thought
I was Messiah.
I think of Luis, from Puerto Rico,
who campaigned me for president
of the psych ward.
Lost souls, looking for a leader,
maybe I was poet laureate,
but definitely not savior.
I once fancied myself future
Patron Saint of the Crazies;
later I regretted saying that.
Now I don't know what to think.
Thinking is one thing. Feeling is another.
I feel for those souls, who wait in psych ward
Purgatory, the psychopharm guinea pigs
and soldiers of misfortune, left to fend for themselves.
While doctors take kick-backs, writing scripts and
forgetting, drinking or toking to get their night's sleep -
I feel for John the Pastor, trapped within faith, so
subservient to God that he would forsake this gift life;
I fell for Ed, the prisoner of his own corporeal form,
not capable of communication past the word "HELP"
It may as well be an anthem for a nation of psychos
a nation of weirdos, people who dare to feel
in a robotic society of repression and complacency.
I wonder if Eric ever made it out,
If Luis is in jail
I wonder about my peers' achievements and failures.
I know I'm doing ok, nowadays.
I don't mind mopping floors.
The silence is calming.
I do still feel, I refuse to forget
that some of the others
may not have been so lucky.
Screw you, cleanroom supervisor.
My job is great.
Not many can meditate
while getting shit done.
And meditation breeds introspect,
I'm a philosopher armed with a mop
You're a working cog who can't imagine
how one could enjoy silence or white walls.
The absence of chaos, of cacophony,
is welcome for me, most definitely if
I'm getting paid for it.
I've come a long way, and it wasn't
so that you could look down at me.
Fortunately, I've grown past
the immediate reaction of anger.
Instead I just mourn those lost
souls who may never have made it.
At least I can sleep without drugs or
booze. I make an honest living, I rest,
I do other things.
I just wish I could do more
for those who need the help.
A co-worker from the cleanroom
stopped by the break room at work
to remind me about how shitty my job is
frankly, I don't know what the big deal is.
They see me sweep, they see me mop
they see me take out the trash.
They say
"Every day?" Man, I would go nuts.
I think: Been there.
This guy today though,
he said "I still can't believe
you work in here by yourself, in silence,
nothing but these sterile white walls for
comfort... it's like a psych ward."
I said: Psych wards are noisier.
And more colorful.
He started to ask "How would you know?"
But chuckled half-way through.
It isn't proper that my coworkers know
That I've been a patient
a ward of the state.
A slave to psychopharmacology
to psychotherapy
to psychos
So I let him think I was joking.
I thought hard, then, in my solitude
as the mop dragged 'cross the floor
about Ed, the stroke victim, who
had no business being in the psych
wing - but no other place in the state
would take him. Ed knew nothing else,
but to scream for help at intervals of 15
seconds. From the moment he woke,
to the moment he slept, he would
shuffle in laps around the psych ward
screaming "HELP!" as loudly as he could.
He was old. Toward the end of his life.
If ever there were a candidate for
pillow-smothering, it would be him,
after a week and a half of occupying the same
wing with him at the hospital. I was
discharged a few days later, which gave me
time to re-evaluate my stance...
I thought of John, the pastor
who poured over scripture,
counting his rosary,
as though he were feverishly reading
the Bible in the hopes of reaching
revelation and rapture more quickly.
He had a nasty habit of trying to
open his wrists - He wanted to know
the other realm. He couldn't wait for
the Lord to tell him it was his time. He
knew the grandeur of Earth, of mortal
reality, and felt himself not worthy.
Last time I saw him was at the outpatient
clinic, and as enthralled as I was
to see him years after he had been
released, when I went up to greet him,
he sobbed as the admittance papers
were signed and he was being walked,
with his head bowed, as if in revery or
silent recognition, that his fate for the
next few weeks entailed a small room
limited, supervised contact with sharp things,
and daily group therapy.
I think of Eric from Ghana, who thought
I was Messiah.
I think of Luis, from Puerto Rico,
who campaigned me for president
of the psych ward.
Lost souls, looking for a leader,
maybe I was poet laureate,
but definitely not savior.
I once fancied myself future
Patron Saint of the Crazies;
later I regretted saying that.
Now I don't know what to think.
Thinking is one thing. Feeling is another.
I feel for those souls, who wait in psych ward
Purgatory, the psychopharm guinea pigs
and soldiers of misfortune, left to fend for themselves.
While doctors take kick-backs, writing scripts and
forgetting, drinking or toking to get their night's sleep -
I feel for John the Pastor, trapped within faith, so
subservient to God that he would forsake this gift life;
I fell for Ed, the prisoner of his own corporeal form,
not capable of communication past the word "HELP"
It may as well be an anthem for a nation of psychos
a nation of weirdos, people who dare to feel
in a robotic society of repression and complacency.
I wonder if Eric ever made it out,
If Luis is in jail
I wonder about my peers' achievements and failures.
I know I'm doing ok, nowadays.
I don't mind mopping floors.
The silence is calming.
I do still feel, I refuse to forget
that some of the others
may not have been so lucky.
Screw you, cleanroom supervisor.
My job is great.
Not many can meditate
while getting shit done.
And meditation breeds introspect,
I'm a philosopher armed with a mop
You're a working cog who can't imagine
how one could enjoy silence or white walls.
The absence of chaos, of cacophony,
is welcome for me, most definitely if
I'm getting paid for it.
I've come a long way, and it wasn't
so that you could look down at me.
Fortunately, I've grown past
the immediate reaction of anger.
Instead I just mourn those lost
souls who may never have made it.
At least I can sleep without drugs or
booze. I make an honest living, I rest,
I do other things.
I just wish I could do more
for those who need the help.