Intake Interview With the Analyst
I really do not read much anymore
and I cannot finish what I start to write.
The TV set is broken and
I have no plans to replace it.
I have no attention span.
I am inordinately spiteful and
treasure my surges of schadenfreude
the way other people treasure
their middle-age orgasms:
too few not to be savored.
Perhaps I am in the foothills
of dementia and wait only to trip
over my own feet when I tie together
my shoelaces. But if I know that,
if I know what is happening to me,
then how deranged can I truly be?
If I sit here with you long enough
I will start to lose focus, my
concentration will wander, I
will babble not of green fields
but will merely recount the
well-rehearsed lies I have
told myself for years.
Perhaps I am Enrico Quarto
wearing a mask in order to survive.
If so, then it is unoriginal: the play
has already been written long since,
Pirandello died well before even I
was born, and he is remembered mainly
in the screens of Wikipedia, which
gave his dates as 1427 to 1928.
Do you think you can fix
what has come loose inside my head,
if you look inside the soul
I might dare show you?
More to the point, do I think
that you can do that by reading
what I will not say, by divining
the secrets I whisper not even
to my pillow but only to
the parts of me I cannot hear?
KTW/9-27-09
--
Ken Wolman http://awfulrowing.wordpress.com/ http://www.petsit.com/content317832.html
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"All writers are hunters, and parents are the most available prey."--Francine du Plessix Gray
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