remedies, prescriptions or otherwise

and you're sitting on the leather
couch, telling your inner
thoughts
and spilling your guts, he looks at
you with
disdain and curiosity, at once,
yet, you're paying 300 an
hour for

his services, well that's what
he
bills insurance, he wants to tell you,
politely,
to pick up your abdomen
and your intestines and place
them
back in your stomach, show
some

integrity, civility, some tact,
hell
he doesn't have to know everything,
yet the
stain of your blood on the
carpet is enough to drive away
further
patients and create bad karma
for

his practice, well hey, if he
doesn't
do that, no different, what society
does, you
see them everyday, shopping,
eating, at the club, dismembered
because
they aren't completely "whole"

they
are lacking, metaphorically
and you can see their pain,
I
know how you looked at her when
she tried to talk
to you, she was
without ears, because she
could

only hear her inner thoughts,
telling
her how sick she was, to kill herself,
social
skills with you, might infect you
with diseases, despair,
without eyes,
because she is without hope,
vision,

meaning, and you without a
mouth,
because you're too afraid to speak
to anyone,
without nourishment, tubes
hanging out of you, yet the nerve
to
turn your back on someone
befriending

you, a legion of insomniacs walking
around
who haven't slept because they are
tormented
by whatever, taking drugs that don't
work,
alleviating symptoms, creating new problems
as
I press my beating heart, further into
the mohair rug out of
spite, because someone
is going to listen to me