Therapy 20151119

Everything is therapy.  It’s all therapy,

the dodgeball scurry,

the yoga animal,

the writing junkie fix and jaggedly circuitous David Foster Wallace homilies,

the spoken word night introvert-anonymous meetings,

the performance erotica pieces,

the coworker cotton field reminiscing of Irma Thomas, Etta James blues 

the film society screening close captioning,

the comedy sketch bar jousts,

the conversations over scotch with immigrant New Orleanians,

the punk pits counseling millennials safe-spacing each other

like wet puppy-hippies trying to burn bras and draft cards with an i-phone,

the panther power Baldwin-matters silent respect of what racism has evolved shut up and listens,

the comrade-talk with the iconoclast democratic socialists,

the roto-calls from the offspring’s Catholic School every Sunday evening during the zombie drives,

the gray haze of divorce memories and legal bills,

the scoff-laugh runty smirk of escape from a crab trap,

the dead bodies in dumpsters,

the superhero dress-up melees,

the literature pouring from digital matrixes beckoning to crawl inside a dead human’s head and nest,

the computerized music at the office pounding out a wealthy chicken man’s son’s financial statements

to the art of Louie and Ella, Bruce and Bob, Johnny and Woody, Sam and Otis

the images of Kandinsky, Carrington, Modigliani, and Dominique spider-web strung to walls,

the atheist hitching posts,

the revolutionary roll-call hub-bub privilege ruckus 

the family juke circles on god

the sits by the Mississippi watching the barges and tugs nudge the currents with notebooks and yoga mats, the trumpets and interstate underpass homeless tent pitching,

the Breesus touchdowns,

the twenty-two minute roux stirs into that shade of amber brown;

the search for love

it’s all therapy.