To the Joker
You told me not to go on pills,
Take the quick death, get injected with a needle.
For what are pills? Get injected with a needle.
The bloody needle breaks off in the bloody arm.
Fight them back, I lied to myself, that you told me.
I don’t lie
You told me to go on pills like you did. You did –
If I so much as got depressed over your oncoming death.
You were on pills at the time, and dying of them.
And told myself to kill myself or to harm others – no,
You told me, go with them Nazis quietly.
Very Groucho Marx of him to do so.
He lives on as the amateur Jewish Comic of my soul.
“Round and round went the big f – -ing wheel.
In and out went the big prick of steel.”
And now, years after having tried all types of pills
And there are pills. More pills to take.
The Joker was my husband.
I shall not want�later. He so much as nearly said it would be a jock
Who replaced him? Reggie is indeed that jock.
The Batman is now my husband. They are Jughead and Reggie
From Archie Comics and from Detective Comics.
They are The Joker and The Batman.
Ronald Schwarz and Remigio Peralta.
It is later. I am St. Vitas Dance itself.
I have not died of all of the diseases yet,
From selling my soul and other forms of nursing for a living.
And the time is now
I am so restless. So very restless.
Others go down with me. I caused none of those feckless.
I even tried to save some of them while institutionalized.
There are the pills. So many different pills.
It helped me kill some time in stir to write this poem.
“The Stir” is my own now disabled kitchenlike foam.
I used to be a sport that ran, swam and bicycled near Puget Sound.
Now if I walked a mile, I would surely be downed,
As I weigh well over 200 fatty pounds.
Our Bat daughter, The Pinay, is 11 and doing great.
She’s out to the movies with her big sister Jayne.
She has very little in life about which to complain.
I’m sure they’ll both be home before it gets too late.
Stir spins around. I left someone else’s poem
To write this thing, I wrote someone else’s poem –
On the ground.
