"Poetry is boring"

This is what I look like when I'm not got rational.

Evening, everyone. With my discovery of the baby duck, an impromptu walk in the mild October air, a surprise hearing of Schubert's cello quintet on KMFA, and a peanut butter bagel, I had every reason to think, hey, this day isn't so bad. And that's a fine thought to have. More problematic is the one that comes after: and it's going to stay fine. People with anxiety disorders are prediction-prone. After all, what's the danger in reassurance? Well, life is flux, and about an hour after forecasting the next eight hours, my mood, and with it my puny personhood, deteriorated. First I felt a little tired, then flat, then generally ill, and finally, from disappointment and malaise both, depressed. So I wrote an unhappy ballad about being mentally ill. Enjoy.

When will the world be real again?

When will touch be clear?

When will the habit in my head

Communicate what’s here:

Simple bodies, simple bones;

Common sense; sound laws;

Reason for the doubting pulse

To interrupt and pause?

Bodies that prove elusive, die.

Vague spirits make vague graves.

How can the disappearing mind

Turn absence to a slave?

Remember stars, and soil, and water;

Forget where fire goes.

Cast off the anaesthetic coat

Of some old Plato’s clothes.

Wrap yourself in mortal hurt;

Endure the education.

It will teach you to be sure

At your annihilation.

So count the constellations, fine;

Stare at them and wonder.

But dig the earth, and dwell inside it,

As you will, when under.

If it disturbs you to be wild,

If what you crave is real,

Be glad for burden and for pain;

These will help you heal.