my ghost drives around with a bag of dead fish

falling neutrinos drift through the trees

he staggers and reels, runs up credit card bills

and clogs up the toilet with bottles of pills



here in the bipolar ward

if you shower you get a gold star

but I'm not going far till the Haldol kicks in

until then, until then



I'm strapped to this fucking twin bed

and I won't get any cookies or tea

till I stop quoting Nietzscheand brush my teath and comb my hair



days pass slow in slippers and robe

but my ghost still bangs on the roof

like John the Baptist in the rain

while the nurses play Crazy Eights