Sam Herschel Wein - Bock Rottom
To use humor to talk about things I don’t like, I often switch the first letters of words as a ploy, a Medense Fechanism.
Everybody loves jokes, especially therapists. I’m Deverely Suppressed today, thanks for asking. I thought about swallowing a Punch
of Bills. I haven’t left my Dead in Bays. I’m soooo funny, I explain to my therapist, though he’s not smiling, giggling, not remotely tickled.
My therapist enjoys my humor though, even if he keeps bringing it up, what I’m doing, wants me to know he’s figured me out,
tries not to laugh but if I keep with it, often he chuckles, he can split and heel, he falls directly out the seat of my mind, he says, you spend
too much of our sessions trying to lighten the mood, taking care of me, easing the room’s sorrows, the brick room with three chairs,
one couch, a lacy red and green pillow that I hug, so many boxes of tissues and he keeps tightening the tension, says no
he would never pressure me he’s just trying to get me to be real but I’m fist closing the pillow the couch he keeps pressing I keep
yelling you don’t get it you Fother Mucking slender-nosed man you are Bresting my Puttons and this room is such a thick, pulsing
wet ocean of winded-tight air no matter if I jab or joke by the time I leave we’re rubbing sadness from our eyes, all the pens snap
- Bock Rottom by Sam Herschel Wein