Isn’t There a Drug for That?

By: Dan Carpenter

so shrewd, this so-called disorder

such uncanny creativity

in a hijacking of serotonin and synapse

witches’ brew of chemicals

raising spirits that know

or think they know

– same effect –

all the secrets

of the targets of paranoia

probing with ineffable genius

for moments of joy and solemnity

to pierce and piss upon

O, where hides the face

of the just and benevolent God

our church fathers assured us

had routed the ancient impish deities

that amused themselves

fucking with mortals

Where the hell is Psyche

goddess of beauty and soul?

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Dan Carpenter is a freelance journalist, poet, fiction writer, essayist, and blogger, residing in Indianapolis. He has contributed poems, stories, and essays to Laurel Review, Poetry East, Illuminations, Pearl, Xavier Review, and many other journals and anthologies. He has published two books of poems, The Art He’d Sell for Love (Cherry Grove, 2015) and More Than I Could See (Restoration, 2009); and two books of non-fiction.

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