My name is Robert. I’m bipolar.

A manic-depressive mound of mole hair.

Met with the doc in her underground control lair.

She prescribed an antipsychotic,

a dopamine antagonist,

for the brain where all the maggots live,

eating holes in tissue of American static laxative.

“Let me take out my pad and scribble a few lines

so I can bill you $1500 for five minutes of my time.

There’s just one catch,” looks over her glasses,

“You’ll have the vocabulary of the privileged classes.”

Use it to your advantage, but watch those country roots.”

She stands up, grabs a book, and opens halfway through.

“Here’s the diagnosis you’ll give to the future you:

‘You internalize aspirations of the masses,

highly impressionable,

A strong gut without the facts yet,

fighting with time,

lacking patience and peace of mind.

You’ve got to school yourself

before you get your half-baked brain checked.

Be careful with your intent

or you’ll spew verbal evidence—

the rotting excrements—

of maggots eating away

at the decay

of a once-great nation.’”

I stand and grab the book and say,

“I wrote this from the future,

meanwhile quacks like you

bound up human potential

with your psychobabble sutures.”

I pull down my pants,

shit in my hand,

and pile it on her desk.

“That’ll be ten-million dollars

for emotional distress.”

**mic drop**