Psychodraft (Anti-Draftboard Madness Poem) Poem by Doren Robbins

I’m watching the Anthony Perkins of Psycho.
My 1968 draft board.
I like the tide when it stays out, the sea has taken enough, I said.
Please explain, he said.
I’m a Raw nut man, I said.
You speak in pure inferences, be clear about what you mean,
you are not speaking in context, he said.

Don’t put your slippers on the bed, she said.
They’ve never been outside, I said.
Yeah but they’ve been on the floor
and the floor’s been outside, she said.
How can the floor’ve been outside? I ask.
Don’t start talking like you’re a professor of
Germsamania or something, she said.
Everything’s coming right at me, I said.
Nothing’s coming at you, don’t start, she said.
The uncooked side of it all is coming at me, I said.
No, it’s William Randolph Hearst when he was ten
asking his mother to buy him the Louvre, that’s the problem,
she said. Grateful my watch running again for one dollar, I said.
Do you see the gene for oligarchy and murder, do you understand
the technology of soybean buttons, don’t you ever question
why some have the bushy and some have the shaved eye brows?
She asked. Everything, everything it has to be, I told her.

I’m watching the Anthony Perkins of Psycho.
He wants me to answer:
What is the difference between plunk and throw?
My name is Ukrainian Dorn, I said.
Oh, he answered, I am Armenian Mike.
But I thought you were Tony Perkins in Psycho.
If you are Mike, I said, I want you to know,
before you got here the general’s driver
stood by the side of your chair, opened his buttons
and pissed his cat skunk pheromonic spray.
Why didn’t you do something?
No one’s going to get that scent out of the rug, the upholstery,
what’s left of my hat, or your ivory toothpick.
You might rationalize it means nothing more
than one scent is stronger than another,
but even Argus Panoptes the mythic giant with 100 eyes
failed to protect against wild passion.
How would you describe the driver’s passion? And, two,
why was he left alone with me?
You mean quicksand, he said, what happened to quicksand?
People really used to fear quicksand. I think I saw Victor Mature
die in quicksand. What was that movie? There was a plane crash,
I was seven years old, I think they flew back in time,
maybe it was one of the other survivors in the quicksand,
there was something about seeing that guy sink
then seeing his hat resting safe on the quicksand
when he was under. I used to look for and watch that film
3-4 times, it was one of those old all-week special events
they used to have on TV. I looked for it just to see the man
die in quicksand, just to see the hat.
Ukrainian Dorn, he said, I’m sorry I exploded at you.
We forgive each other. Thanks, want a peanut?

For the last time, if I didn’t come here they would’ve
taken me to jail. I am Anthony Perkins of Psycho,
this happened at the draft board, I sat across from
the Anthony Perkins of Psycho.
He had a frozen face, I had a frozen face.
He had black hair, mine was blond Brillo.
He would forever be prevented against seeing
his frozen face, whereas I believed I might foresee
a thawing face, or maybe not, maybe not even
if it rode on a neck of the ice floe shouting.
No, our faces remained frozen,
his at attention, mine partially zip-locked.
The two Anthony’s.
My name isn’t Norman Bates.
I never owned a motel.
My parents died of Alzheimer’s.
I am unarmed.