Twenty mils paroxetine HCl. Two weeks in mania;
this is the free ride, bad case
of the giggles on doctors’ samples, kite-high.
When you settle in, there’s a calm, there’s
an “ahh” that skims over
the silver ocean in a hoverchair, breezy and noiseless,
but then you notice: legs are electric, techno-realism
in dream vision, alien feelings
that come in peace, bug-eyed, and strange things below.
Not sure when the lethargy thickens, but it’s
ingrown like a second skeleton,
without joints. Contentment becomes apathy, marble,
even Christ can’t feel the nails when he’s carved of stone.