Behind 3 doors

Hi everyone, long time no talk to! (It’s me, Whirling Dervish again). I was in the hospital for a protracted period in November, and was heavily drugged. While I was there, I wrote several poems. They are all surreal and convoluted, and frankly awful. I’m not sure that I could ever be a writer who writes *well* under conditions of altered consciousness. But in any case, I have rescued a few of those poems and am trying to turn them into something worth reading. The version below is *not* that version, but it is a work in progress.

In Pursuit of the Door that Swings Both Ways
(or, for the love of dead springs)

Behind Door Number One stood a short Oaxacan man:
like Speedy Gonzalez he wore a sombrero
but he ate a lemon marscapone flauta
and seemed a bit fat for a hat dance,
Mexican or otherwise.
Andale’ Andale’ Andale’ he shouts
let’s get this show on the road, you and I
I’m rippin’ and ragin’ and rarin’ to go.

His accent: barely detectable in the cloud of
fried sweet cheese in his mouth.

He grins.

Behind Door Number Two lie mountains of pills.
The Rexall man stands atop a case marked “Thorazine” and
he hawks his wares.
Come and gitit! Major tranquilizers, anti-psychotics,
anti-depressants, anti-aging, anti-anxiety, anti-smoking,
anti-drugging, we’ve got it all folks! If you are an anti- type
of guy, I’ve got an anti-type of pill for you.
White circles, blue triangles, yellow squares,
white diamonds, grey rectangles, pink capsules

He’s wearing a red and white pin striped apron.
Like the Good & Plenty Man. But with class 3 narcotics.

Behind Door Number Three
sits a jellyfish. a monkey. and a daydream believer.
now skirt:
bypass the jellyfish or you will get stung
dart past the monkey or he’ll pants you. Or give you a noogie.
And the daytime believers?
Don’t ever listen.

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