Paean to Bicillin L-A ® and the End of Harry Harlow's Rhesus Monkey Experiments

I was in Harry Harlow's “Pit of Despair,” that walled isolation chamber with a one-way mirror: spent months there, rocking like a horse turned wooden by the blank stare of a mute whisperer into part of an attic's unaccounted boneyard.  I do know how it feels to suckle at a wire mother, because a tin mom's teleprompter was the script given me by captors whose transgenic faces tarred my raptor-feathered fight.  Isolation, that velvet rope of triage that cannot be deveined, spelled out America's subliminal apartheids like a bride's soft skin that lives within her hardened marriage.   I started off homebound, a leitmotif of the Mandela Effect, once a latchkey kid, keyed up in the collective amygdala, then gently cordoned off the way a capsized crew is threaded off from where they tread together until one of them goes lost.  Later, I was rigid as the monkey huddled in a corner, egg-eyed like the tempest of an anthropomorphic psychosis that society sections away.  That monkey's mutagenic life became the DNA of all human cruelty. I pined for touch while the chemical cartel nudged me with its ammonia waves, and even now, I cry for the word felt.