ELIZABETH HARTMAN

Alone in a room
Dreaming of love in the park
Wide open window

Copyright 2018 by Dylan Mitchell

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

A LITTLE SATURDAY NIGHT WISDOM...

BLUE MONDAY

Janis Joplin once famously said that the worst day of the week is Sunday AND they close the bars? This is one of the very few times I disagree with the great lady of Rock/Soul/Blues. Mondays are the worst: First day of  bullshit school, a tedious job, or just doing our best to make some sense out of a life that is often brutal and coarse.

I don't know the exact stats, but more people off themselves on Monday than any other day of the week. At least as best I can remember from reading The Savage God. That includes the U.S. and UK.

Well, music has always helped me in a huge way, so I offer this sublime little tune by The Mamas and Papas.

And I pledge that we all should do our best to at least make it to Tuesday. Sorry for such a grim post, but this wretched weather is clearly doing rather odd things to my mind and emotions. It will be better tomorrow, they always say. I hope this proves to be true for once. Now wouldn't that be nice?

Dylan

SPLENDOR IN THE SNOW

I'd like to take a moment and say something about a dog. Because I did actually meet and know a really good one. So please don't think that I dislike ALL dogs. Because I don't. I just think cats are more of a challenge. And I really do like a good challenge. Anyway, we used to have this wonderful little mutt (her name was Tina) when I was growing up in Chicago. Tina was a genius. I'm being serious here. That dog was ten times more intelligent than the rest of the people I lived with in our house. I used to look at her sometimes, and I swear she could tell exactly what I was thinking. If I was about to say: Wanna go for a walk? Her long floppy ears would prick up a bit, and she would tilt her fuzzy little head all of a sudden. And then when I finally said the words she already knew I was going to say - she would dash to the front hall, grab her leash off the table, and in a flash - she was motioning for me to slip it on her collar so we could get the hell out of there, and go on one of our great adventures together outside.

She loved to spend hours in the snow, and so did I. We both liked winter better than summer. And when we went to the park on a late winter afternoon: it seemed like we were the only living souls there, and all that white wide open space belonged to us alone. Later, after we finally decided to go back home - if I was feeling especially sad or depressed about something and hiding all day in bed under the covers - Tina would suddenly appear out of nowhere, and start making these really pitiful little whining noises at me. I'm pretty sure she was letting me know that she was on my side, and I didn't have to suffer alone anymore. And then after I patted the bed a couple of times, she would let out a little yip of joy, and hop in with me. Then she'd lick my face twice (never more than that), and we'd settle down to take a little nap together. And a lot of the sadness really did seem to go away for awhile.

Another amazing thing about Tina: She was wild about Shakespeare (mostly the tragedies). I'm not making this up. She loved it when I read long passages of Hamlet or Romeo And Juliet to her out loud. She would just look at me with those big brown intelligent eyes of hers, and give me her absolute attention as Shakespeare's poetry rolled off of my tongue. So you see why I say she was a genius now? And there will never be another dog like her. At least I haven't met one yet. Because one day in late December, after she somehow escaped from our fenced in front yard and failed to come right back home - I spent close to six hours out in the freezing Chicago snow, desperately calling out her name as I searched for her in our favorite park. But she was gone forever. Just like that.

And after my hands and feet were so numb that I couldn't feel them anymore, I made my uncertain way back home, and somehow just knew that I'd never see her intelligent big brown eyes again. And her leash on the table in the hall made me so very sad, that I threw it in the trash the very next day. But her memory was not as easy to let go of. Because no other dog I have ever met has managed to replace her in my heart. And no dog ever could. So maybe that's why I decided to just be happy with cats? Because I got tired of always looking for another Tina, when there is not another dog like her in all the wide world. So it was time to let go. No more long walks in the snow.

Essay © 2016 by Dylan Mitchell

FALLING DOWN

In their memory...

New York City is falling down
as I rise from my bed
like a stubborn corpse
While people are burned
and buried alive
here I make stiff fingers move
shuffle my numb feet
toward life

Mad planes seek easy targets
in the sky Here I put on my
hat, let the elevator
drop me down
to the basement
below Maybe a miracle
will come in the mail
one day soon
The Disability checks

won't stop
I won't lose the subsidized
roof over my head
untold loaves of
bread will appear in the
empty cupboard like magic
And good blood will
flow through my sick
veins once again
Thank you
America

The Twin Towers fall
and some 3,000
souls are gone
Here I abandon my bed
sip weak coffee
and squint at the
12 inch screen

In New York City
a homeless man has
hung an American flag
across the side of his
cart But I only see
hunger and early
coffins here Red is the
color of blood, ashes
are white, bruises are
blue Now a barefoot girl

has wrapped a flag
around herself like a
shroud Her face is a
mask of ash, her dark
eyes are ringed with
blood, blue bruises
disfigure her feet
She is an American
saint on display

A letter in the mailbox
is a dangerous
thing now, but
I am already falling, falling
Since bombs or germs
won't make my world
worse: I open my mail
never think to wash my
hands, check the empty
cupboard one more time,
and wait for my world
to explode

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell 

ROBIN WILLIAMS: 1951 - 2014

You made the world laugh
While death tortured you inside
The belt was too tight


Haiku © 2015 by Dylan Mitchell

ROWING WITH ANNE SEXTON

How right you are, Anne. But you were always
right - even when your worst critics tried to
silence your awful truth.

So I've flipped the pages of my dusty
calendar, and have seen May for the first
time this year:

An enormous field of lazy lavender flowers. How
I long to sleep in such a rich and natural bed!
Instead, I bought a new 100 watt bulb,

and lit up my dark cave in the sky. Now I am wide
awake. I see too much dust and death, and a
rare living sunflower or two. I place my frozen

TV dinner in the microwave, and read your holy
words while I wait for that faint little bell to tell
me my toxic meal is done.

I now have light, Anne. But there is no life
saving soup. There's no home or heart when
depression has robbed its victim of

everything that matters most: Family, friends, joy,
those silly little bruised flowers on the bank
calendar page. So I read your poems, and wait for the

rowing to come. I know it might never happen: That awful
rowing toward God. But you came so very close, Anne.
That's the tragedy for people like us:

We came so fucking close.

Poem © 2014 by Dylan Mitchell

The Bubonic Plague, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Clinical Depression...

So that explains everything! Now I know why I never contracted AIDS - or ended up one of Jeffrey Dahmer's victims, even though my first lover (and more than half of the people I knew in the 1980s) all died from "complications due to AIDS." And I came extremely close to going to a certain gay bar (it was called Carol's) - on the same night that Jeffrey Dahmer decided to go there. And picked up one of his tragic victims. And invited him back to his place to pose for a few pics. And the young man left the bar with Dahmer, and was never seen alive again. A very sweet young man I'd actually met briefly - six years before he met Jeffrey Dahmer at that bar.

But even though I got all dressed up in my most flattering jeans and tight black T-shirt on that fateful night (I was hoping for a little sex and romance - that always helped me escape from my depression for a few hours), my depression won the day. And actually might have saved my wretched life. Because I took off my dark "cruising" outfit, and spent the night alone. Just went to bed with a good book instead. And never made it to Carol's. And then, after Dahmer was finally arrested, and all the books about him and his tragic victims soon started coming out - I finally had a reason to be grateful for my debilitating depression. It literally may have saved my life.

I was so young, in love (and foolish) in late November of 1985, that I had unprotected sex with my lover on numerous occasions - even though I knew he was HIV positive. Of course, alcohol played a pretty big role in it all. We both would become pretty frisky after hanging out and drinking cheap beer at gay bars until dawn. And rip each others clothes off - the minute we got back home. It was mostly oral stuff (I really don't want to get more graphic than that). But he did talk me into letting him screw me one time (I never liked anal sex. And it wasn't just because of my fear of AIDS). And I finally gave in. And the condom (which I insisted he use) broke. So I was actually exposed to the AIDS virus big time. And was convinced I was doomed to die young along with my lover. Well, I was only half right. Kevin did die. In 1992. But I'm obviously still here.

Then I saw a Nova program I'd taped several years ago (but did not actually watch until last night - I often do crazy things like that) about Bubonic Plague, and how a few lucky people contracted the disease, and lived to tell the tale. It turned out that they had much stronger immune systems than most. So they survived. And now, all the extremely lucky relatives of the original plague survivors - are surviving our own modern day plague: AIDS. This means that a few people are walking around with super immune systems. And can be exposed to the AIDS virus many times. And their immune systems will just keep on attacking and destroying the virus.

There was a quite tragic and touching example of a fifty-something gay man that literally lost every queer friend and lover he'd ever had. He'd been to hundreds of funerals, and finally decided to stop counting. It all became too painful for him. And he'd actually had unprotected sex with many of the gay men whose funerals he was now weeping at. Yet he continued to test negative for the virus. And he was having himself tested every six months. He did this for years. Just waiting to receive his death sentence. But it never came. He remained quite healthy and HIV negative. And very baffled and depressed. Everyone in the gay world he ever knew and loved was gone now. He was a lone survivor. So a curious researcher finally decided to find out how this could be. And it was discovered that this lucky gay man had inherited a super immune system from one of his relatives long ago - that had contracted and survived the Bubonic Plague. So he could literally become exposed to the AIDS virus hundreds of times, and his immune system would always save him. WOW.

So I guess I really am one lucky (albeit lonely) dude, huh? Sure, I am often too ill to even crawl out of bed. And I still miss (and think about my Kevin) every single day. And I act like a madman half of the time - checking and rechecking the locks, light switches, fridge door, cabinet doors, etc. (Ain't OCD a hoot!) And I'm thought of as a half-cracked recluse poet by many in my little literary town. Plus I really could use a good long bath. ASAP. But I'm still alive. Somehow. When many others - through no fault of their own - are no longer on this earth. So I really should try and be more grateful about life. I mean, I have to at least TRY - right?

Essay © 2013 by Dylan Mitchell

SUDDEN LIGHT

I slept
in my clothes
again

last night. Those stubborn
buttons were beyond
my dying

fingers. No energy to
unzip my pants, take off
a shoe.

The stark sun
stabs my exhausted eyes
each morning.

Shrill
street sirens startle
my numb mouth open:

A long silent scream,
in a deaf man's
nightmare.

Under the heavy covers
I try to shut out
the world

until I'm somehow able
to rise again. Maybe
Jesus

will come to me
during this suffocating
darkness

and take my soiled hand.
He will pull me out of this
deep black hole

and guide me towards that
sudden light. His sweet
and gentle hands will

bless my blind
eyes open
and make my

body pure. He will wash
away the decay
and deadly fear

with his unearthly love. He
will make the sullen worms
forgive my fallen flesh.

He will throw out the mouldering
shroud. He will sing me
wide awake until

I'm wearing something
white and waltzing in the
sun. He will carry my heavy

burden and stand beside me,
as I laugh and dance on
my own empty grave.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

FOR ANOTHER MARY

If I seemed cold and casual
during our last minutes -
let me say I am sorry.

But I was already numb by the
news and the nails. So I took
the easy way out -

and did not bother to say what
mattered most: You wanted me
to live while so many wished for

my early death. And I could no
longer figure out the bad from
the good. But I still said my

prayers each night. And hoped
Jesus or Mother Mary might
prove the worldly ones

wrong. And you held my hand
during that dark journey
until the good news came.

And I will always love you for that.

Poem © 2011 by Dylan Mitchell