Malignant Phraseology Vol. 1: “You’re the Crazy One”
I hung up the phone. I heard your eye’s screaming whisper, catching those blinding-dark glimpses behind my recycled aluminum mask. How dare you question me with able-minded accounts.
Look away, over there, inside the you that voluntarily drank the unknowingly spiked Kool-Aid just yesterday. Is that she okay? I know I am.
Follow my right hand.
In it is your Soul. Watch yourSelf rise
and fall, and fall,
and fall into the dirt.
Again, focus on my correct hand.
In it is the Truth. Watch yourTongue wonder
and waver, and waver,
and waver into the abyss.
Don't look at the deception of
this left moment.
Again, see my strong fisted hand.
See it opening, releasing you,
dropping you. Oh dear,
Look here now.
I will catch you, fragile one.
See? You do need some help.
I can help. I am both the malignancy and the oncologist. I know best. I can treat you, and the disease that is you, like no other. The overtly, overly patient-patient that you learned to be. I caught the whiff of this deep-in-your-marrow disease early on. That stench of worthless antibodies, unable to fight off even the common cold shoulder.
Now, now. All you need is this slow chemical drip. My mind-numbing medicine will wipe out all that is good and, if you don’t die from that, whatever is left will label you “survivor.”
By this time I will have moved my practice somewhere more prestigious than you, perhaps even the White House. You can send your wax-embossed “thank you” note by post. I will smell you when it arrives, because I have a strong sense of things. The memory of what you meant to me, will be with me, in my upgraded Situation Room.