I..Kind of down in the dumps today, depressed, feeling vastly empty inside; lethargic, you know (sick). I, I need, I need..I know! I need a poem. Read! what shall I read? Wordsworth? Shakespeare? Coleridge? T.S. Elliott? he gone to seed (you see dat). Milton, Milton, I need? or something more modern, yeah, real, and egocentric one, regal and banal..bragging narcissistically on, and on, on one’s dissipations, et cetera, and cetera; and don’t make sense! otherwise; or I could take a pain pill, or two, –or 3! and that does something, too..but no, they won’t last; but poets do, and are – unnecessarily – forever! (fortunately, or unfortunately). A poem’s like a pain pill, black! it’s slimy, uneasy..queazy, it slides down, it’s quick! only it doesn’t stick to your ribs; then you need another..right away! plus you build up a tolerance for it. More! more poetry. I must have more, more of “The Myrtles, and thee laurel’s, and, and, –I-V”:”To pee, or not to pee!” (it’s a question; if youse bee’s da ancient mariner, –whizzin’ over the side in the sea, see?) “..where thee women come and go, –(and!) speaking of Michelangelo,” “What about that ‘Mick’ and his David, eh?” flesh of stone an’ hardened arteries..little rig, like a fig, alone! points, he points to the Psalms (God gave him to write, right?) don’t he? and the prophets, too! and the prodigal’s old shoes, holes on the soles, there, gettin’ new, that’s the real stuff, in the parable, love that is not tough. Of that, you can never get enough. Old Testament (might save ya). So, now, let’s go down there, get to the refin’d poetry, an’ redefine..it! fresh from the dumps. See? Si! me go, he go, –Van Gogh’s..ahh! (a Yugo) ~c.