CW: psychiatric incarceration, ableist slur

Bellevue of the Ball, I court myself & off the record
we are made of mustard powder, seeds, and blister
in the madhouse son—eighth notes of a Quaker’s tale
& promise they can’t keep, to rewrite health as lock-up,
1800’s number you can call. 1-800- symptomatic sun.
A fresh script caged between, a bloodline’s malady I’m leeching off
the social ladder. Centuries, the 21st appointment with the warden.
Who’s unhinged meaning who needs to be locked in hospital--
who’s crazy, talking now, their manneristic mouth a danger
to themselves: we could be blue. We could be made of cloth
all swaddled up and open in the back, the rows of visions,
we could be prophets, sick things, could be taken
down the hall to let shock’s light in—let the leeches out—
the water spinning with a cure contraption—take us by the collar
to the mouth. A gag’s restraint. So patient in our sickness
& in health, we could be ward-robe in the stars of Snake Pit
could be screening other’s racing thoughts. Who came and went,
all body & all mind, all asymmetrical, all necklines built for shock,
even the white dressed socialite. Her husband bought a matching clutch
of white sheet for the gown. Mistaken as Bellevue or Bethlehem,
who sprouted blisters there. We cling to white walls looking
for a scripture, vine-clawed eyes, a creeper in the window looking back
in night mare’s stable house. A modest fee to watch the patients rise.
A ticket’s fair grounds keep. A bloodline never worthy of a free ride—
build up of zoos—this cripple carnival—this caged & patient sunrise—
& this symptomatic sun—the patience oversaturated, full, the mad
house without blankets, cast of clouds, who will I keep—this 1800th line:
Call if you experience this moon as for the madman—