A MAD POET'S LOVE LETTER TO AMERICA

America, none of the little tricks I use to give
depression the finger would work for me today
(just do one small thing, damn it, and don't
worry about the rest). So I just stayed in bed all
day, and tried to read somebody else's famous
poems - till the hot sun was finally gone, and I
could find no bright moon or burning stars
anywhere in the dark sky, when I was able
to drag my tired body out of bed at last, pull
back the curtains, open the blinds, and stand
by the high window looking down on the
deserted Park Blocks: No people, no pigeons, no
buses, no cars - only good old Abe Lincoln
meekly staring at his feet. And another block
down, cocky Teddy Roosevelt topping some
great dark horse - bear hunting, I believe.
(Could I interest you folks in a Teddy Bear,
circa 1923?) It was midnight in The City Of
Roses, you see (aka Portland, Oregon), and I
needed a shave and a shower very badly, but
didn't have the energy for both. So I only
managed to scrape the eight day beard off
of my face, and put on some smelly clothes
and my only pair of shoes.

And everything seemed much too heavy
for me to lift, much too heavy, even the pure
cotton cap I pulled down low on my
head to cover up my immense guilt and shame.
But I managed to bend over and tie both of my
shoes twice, like a good crazy person should.
And I was so happy, so incredibly happy to find
the elevator empty at last when the doors
squeaked open, and I rode it nine floors down,
all the way down to the basement. And opened
my mailbox to find the forty dollar check I'd
earned by taking the #8 bus to the big hospital
on The Hill last month, and answering a lot of
degrading questions about what it's like to be
insane in America.  And the smug blue-eyed
doctor made me feel ugly and ashamed, so very
ugly and ashamed, but I needed the money. So
I smiled and told him all my deep dark secrets
about madness - how it hurts, and how it helps -
and now three weeks later I'm being paid for
my services, I'm finally being paid: like some
kind of cheap, half-cracked whore the good
doctor really didn't want to pay.

Copyright © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell