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Serotonin Syndrome, or Just From Kotz

September 21, 2016


Highest doses of a few antidepressants, some stimulants, psychotropic drugs, Brain injuries, a cold face from dancing with the Northern Lights—

I'm whistling to provoke and they come to chop my head off, I get away
And don't pout, or else a bird will land on my lower lip, so I suck it up, hunt, Lose myself in great literature,

I sprint through the spruce forest in all-red rubber ChuckTaylor's,
.308 in my right hand Sig .9 at my hip-side .44 mag dangles under my left arm;
I'm practical silent, yet the wolf, she meets me at the kunnisuq, she warns me not to stay gone so long, I cry to her: still saddened by JD's suicide, Dana's overdose, and the rest I loved all gone too young.
She snarls telling me to leave the cabin behind, she tells me it's no longer on the Noatak,
It's on Shore Ave.
The Front St. I use to know, the beach, soft rocks and gravel, Pudagukseeuks and jellyfish washed up along the sides of my Atatta's Carolina Skiffs.
I blubber and yell I can't do it, I've loved you so long, she snaps at my face and tells me there's nothing left for me there, the few dozen names I hold heavy need to lay rest in the permafrost.

I whisper and ask what to do about Brutus, the wolf, she quotes the First Lady," You must do the thing you think you cannot do."
I ask why and say I have a heart. She replies, telling me the tortured are tortured and may not be to blame for such unruly tides rising at night, the beach parties, the washed up Uugruk, softball tournaments, fights and jugs, the wasting away of content native thugs, the racism which lashed and were thrown at your face, resembles the cabin you're at now, a far south hillside, mansions surround you, they sneer in distaste,–but your love and your child, say you ring precious to them, when most of you sounds bad. You gasp in paranoia chasing Blackbears, four days after your eyes have opened, you must rest, hold now what you have, hold it tight and do not fret, they love you now and at a moments notice, don't you ever forget,

Where you came from, what you've done, the grief tragedy hands you to suffer,
There's a time for you to shine in brilliance without the heavy shadow dragging from your neck, There's a day to meet with a king's posture, and one to walk straight into the cities barrage of treats, they're reluctance to accept your finger, makes you the one they want to get. For they kill outside gas stations, in lonely ill-lit rooms, at the homes of their mother's, at the same hands your first home offers; but you are the hunter, able the chase the elusive pack, the stamps of glory deemed over a historian's crush. The heroes of your's who've suffered enough, and cut Mr. Frost a break, Admit you enjoy the spectacle of tennis, old footage of McEnroe amuses you, and that the sport isn't for pussies. Breathe calm, breathe now, air of assurance surfeit, whether Oberst or Shakur—wound up, you are with hate,
Register that they do not know, notice that they sweat too,
Maybe from the same Serotonin Syndrome, or the same old home which haunts you.



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