Regression Therapy

Paul Handley

Sometimes I set aside the time
To go over my catalogue of hate.
I should have taken martial arts
To lessen my fear and improv theatre
For scathing recourse, until I recall
It’s a day and a half since my last Prozac,
And since I’m a firm follower of science,
With a physician that lay hands on my sides
That with a cough confirms my health.  I
Seek bottles with child proof caps.

I trust testing even when inconvenient,
Such as nutrition flip
Flopping (eggs bad, eggs good)
And cold reduction aids,
Inoculations, genetically produced wheat,
Water consumption, space program dollars,
Coffee, hair growth products, pumping
Iron and athletic performance,
My prescription is still followed,
Even a month past expiration date
And has become a trend lag.

I arise and realize over coffee
I want to hurt someone from my past,
Hate drifts away after ingestion
Like a draining rocket booster slipping
To the ocean, boiling soup percolates
From the friction heat touching brine. 
The booster gathers itself,
Easing wizened steel into the water,
Dipping and rolling, then a sigh of relief
To have lost the unworldly heat.
Upended as if deciding to descend,
The foam from the combustion
Already knots away.

That night the capsule of my hate
Raises its head from the muck
Of my vision, barnacles skirting
Its surface looking for a stable home.
Dreams become familiar, but never routine.
Chased by carnie crews, helmed
By my landlord, I beat them over
And over with a bat, but they are
Zombielike in their perseverance.