Schizophrenia

In secret, I’ve been mailing out pieces of my sanity to friends

all winter, wrapping them up in gift-wrap and tying little bows.

My phone keeps ringing. They want to thank me,

and suggest I see a specialist, but I don’t answer.

I’m too busy chiseling away

at my teeth and my skull

and my brain, too.

The best pieces I have yet to find.

Little golden nuggets—fool’s gold, perhaps,

but I’m not after money.

When there is nothing left to mine,

and my mind is nothing more than a whirlpool

that sends all information down my spine

and makes me dance the mazurka,

don’t come knocking—I don’t live here anymore.

I’m gone, dancing down the long desert highway toward oblivion,

my sunburned face lifted toward the clear blue sky,

constantly asking God for directions.