A Freud Kind Of Day

by March 30, 2011 0 comments

I’m at the Jack In The Box next to the auto mechanic
drinking a vanilla milkshake while reading a book
that my drunk poet buddy threw me,
examining cultural history in the context of
a radical reinterpretation of Freudian Psychoanalysis.

It made me think of last night, coming out of
the Ozzy Rabbit Lodge, a local bar where they have
a mural of Ruby Shooting Oswald, on the wall.
I was vomiting in the parking lot, just below
the sign reading “smile you’re on camera.”

It could have been the $1.25 PBR beer special
or perhaps the phone call with a friend
who said; “Faith in anything is meaningless,
we are all just a bunch of goofy monkeys
who only evolved intellect because it was sexy.”

It made me think of my beloved, before she left.
We had gotten so close and familiar that
when we were drunk and she decided that
I needed to vomit, she would hold me down
and stick her finger down my throat until I did.
Which is a pretty odd thing to see, yourself
vomiting on the hand of the woman you love,
particularly an Anal Retentive Germophobe.

The third time she did this was by a swimming pool
drinking till 6am with my poet buddy.
The same night he threw me the book, as he
watched us, shaking his head, a little weirded out.

He later suggested some type of Oedipal Mother
archetype control dominance dynamic.
The other friend suggested a more straight up
sexual reverse penetration/ejaculation
play rape reenactment dynamic.
Either way, admittedly, I did get off on it
in some vague not quite explainable way.

As I’m finishing the milkshake, the thought
occurs to me, that when my mad love returns,
beyond simply seeing a therapist together,
it might behoove me to read up on and study,
hell, even become and expert on,
Freudian Psychoanalytical concepts.
I think we’ve really got something there.

Outside the Jack In The Box I vomited
about half the vanilla milkshake
onto the pavement while some Ginger kid
on a motorcycle, looked at me strangely.

Leaned over forward, clearing my throat,
spitting like that, made me cry just a little bit.
It reminded me of her.


editors note:

A radical reinterpretation of Freud through Shakespearean tragi-comic parking lot character confession and gastrointestinal divination. – mh

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