Give me extra medication
because I want to get blunted.
Bring me a truck load of pills
because I want to have fun.
Yesterday I crapped my pants,
but it wasn't really a problem.
I only did it because
it seemed like a fun thing to do.
I'd like to have a keg party
with some dancing girls as well.
I told the doctor to join me
because he needs to have fun.
I'm in the mood for improvement.
These last few weeks were a drag when
I only wanted a bullet
because I wasn't having much fun.
What concerns me most about this hospitalization is the length of time I'm going to be here. I'm in here five minutes and already I hate this place. There's an asshole next to me that never stops talking. He's quoting passages from the Bible and it freaks me out.
I stopped going to church a long time ago and now I'm being punished by him. The freak claims he is Jesus. He has taken his bed sheet and fashioned some kind of a toga. The guy is nuts. This concerns me. If you have to move me to another room, who knows whom I'll meet next, probably the exact opposite, the devil, or Barry Manilow?
Shit, that fucking Mandy song will be the knife that kills me. How's that for an auditory hallucination or whatever you shrinks call it? I don't want to be here. I'd rather go to jail. That's where I should be anyway. A couple of nights in the drunk tank and I would have sobered up. My problems are not in the mind, but in the drinking. Pink elephants, gremlins, the boogeyman, I don't see these things. I'm not crazy. I'm not retarded. Do I look like someone that's crazy to you?
I want the same things you want. I want a job, a house, a credit card; maybe a little action now and then with a long haired, double breasted beauty with long legs. I am not going to find that here. If you keep loading me up on lithium, I'll crap my pants like a baby. These pills don't help me. I feel like a freaking zombie. That Jesus freak knows what I'm talking about. When he's lucid, he tells me what the lithium does. Man, his toga's fucking brown from the shit he took this morning. You sure as not hell going to cure me by having me smelling shit all day.
What most concerns me is the lack of freedom and dignity in this place. I have to cry like a little bitch just to have a lousy cigarette. This is the only pleasure we have in this place. Choking the chicken is personal and I need my privacy. You fuckers probably have cameras everywhere and I'm not going to give anyone a free peep show. Maybe just that one nurse with the dark hair and perfect teeth can come over one day and dust of these cobwebs of mine. But I'd rather just get out of here and drink a couple of beers. I hate this place. It is such a drag. You want to know why I'm really here? The cops have it in for me. They just don't like it when a guy like me has too much fun. Throwing that TV through the window was a riot. I guess they just didn't think it was funny.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, 37, was born in Cuernavaca, Morelos (Mexico), and has lived in Los Angeles County since age 7. He works in the mental health field. His poems in English and Spanish have appeared in The American Dissident, The Blue Collar Review, Pemmican Press, and Struggle Magazine. His first book of poems, Raw Materials, is from Pygmy Forest Press.