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Personal Note:

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Poem


They treated me for bipolar disorder.
I wanted you to know.

Although we still think it was the Adipex-p
and weed mimicking a disease—
because it hasn’t happened since.

Hard to believe 
it’s been more than twenty years— 
that fourth of July,
when I read your mind at the Washington Mall,
and ran off to watch fireworks 
alone in the grass.

It was wet,
and I could tell—
you thought I was magic.

You walked toward me like a wish,
said, didn't think I’d ever find you.

You can see how the backdrop 
of that night conspired
to spell out fate: the moment 
convincing,
the exploding air supportive of it,

I came to— 
in a hospital, 
you still looked like Clark Gable,
but your mythical gait 
was just a limp—
you’d played baseball in college.
My ESP had just been synapses 
cracking communal phrases inside my skull,
masquerading as serendipity
in wolf's clothing.

all of it—
an embarrassment.

You stopped returning 
my messages, after I underlined 
phrases at random
in a Chicago weekend newspaper,
then tried to get you to believe 
with me. 
I drew a picture of Ganesha
in the margins as further evidence
of our destiny as gods. 

When the mind starts shuffling
everything it's ever touched,
with Vegas-dealer speed,
it doesn’t take much to get to 
a version of the story where you’re holy.

You could’ve easily taken advantage,
but you didn’t. I think you knew
I’d have let you.

Wish you were here.

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