Dead Heroes

our heroes die under flickering flourescent halos
in hospital bed coffins, embalmed in sweat and urine
they cough and groan and lose their minds
while nurses scurry white tiled hallways
bitching about charts and diagrams and doctors

our heroes die of boredom - gnarled bodies in fetal comas,
silence no comfort
this man fought hitler in '44,
in '04 he fights for a clean robe
(laundry day is thursday, buddy, sorry out of luck)
this man hasnt been showered in a week because he's too weak to ask
and the staff is too busy to offer
their skins are bruise colored testaments to the bullshit embodied
in every yellow ribbon on every republican car
do you motherfuckin patriots ever show up even for an hour
on christmas eve?

Its no wonder all of our heroes are dead.
Swept away like the husks of roaches.
Swept under the carpet and into the system.
Banished and forgotten, overwhelmed
and destroyed by the slow erosion of dignity

Charlie and the Ward

His eyes dart around the room like a starving hummingbird
as he runs his hands through scraggly hair, shirt inside-out,
A tag poking towards his chin like a tiny tombstone with a washing machine epitagh
He paces and tells me the FBI put parasites in his blood
He likes to listen to radio static, crackle crackle as he mumbles about helicopters and plans to diabolically eliminate all us scrub covered babysitters
its not a ward, Charlie, its an antiseptic white vacation home-
here's your paper cup of shampoo, heres your prison comb
Don't forget to brush your teeth, Charlie, your mouth looks like a swamp
Muddied by your schemes and dreams.
Here's your paper cup of water, Charlie, take your pills and it'll be alright
Lie down on your soggy mattress - try to hold it in tonight?
Charlie likes to listen to the radio static, grinding through the air
Mixing with the antibacterial soap, the piss and shit and shine
And the rantings of a decade of lost minds

Mr. C and the VA hospital

He sputters and gasps like a broken down motor
His skin a tarp thrown over a rusted frame
Liver spots purple on brown paper bag skin
He is waiting to die.

He fought in two wars, now he dies in a bed
Insane, incoherent, snoring and drooling.
I watch as he rasps, coughing green phelgm onto his gown
Too proud to die, to weak to live.

"Where are my glasses," he asks
As I read over his file
(He stabbed his grandaughter two nights before)
He clutches and scratches at the air (invisible adversary).
I wonder what God has left him
Half dead, half alive, drooling from a Haldol drip.

And I watch the clock, waiting for him to stop breathing.
Wondering how much paperwork will be involved.

Little J

Stumps of broken crayons, midnight snacks
Multicolored insanity scribbled in wax on whitewashed walls
He stares, confused and content, at me as I scribble bullshit notes
He tears his sheets into equal strips, proud ribbons of
accomplishment
And presents them to me, his eyes gleaming with pride.
He gestures in an undecipherable sign language,
Swatting invisible flies and clapping one handed

"J is elevated, showing signs of hallucinations. Continue treatment as per behavioral plan."

I smile back at him, a zen moment. "Da-da-da-da-da-da"
He fires at machine gun speed
"Tetetetetetete"

Yes, J. I understand.

Welcome to the Ward

My name is Jonny and I work at the Psych Ward. I'm 23 years old, and whenever work comes up I'm always asked to tell stories about the various psychos and freaks I meet at work. I usually write short stories or poetry at the end of my shift while the patients sleep, and I thought I would share them. So here goes.