for the first time my courage
has completely failed me,
or rather, maybe it's courage
that is sustaining me.

i may as well be a prisoner
in a foreign country were it
not for my knowledge of the customs
of all humans, me first-you never.

to be happy is an extremely difficult
and doubtful position and i'm as
often as not found sitting
on the bed with my hands over my face.

used to be my pleasant thoughts
were neatly braided behind my forehead,
and i had a most genial humor for both
myself and with my jailor of reality.

of late i'm looking the very picture
of abject misery in pasted smiles;
would that i could understand
and make myself understood.

and yet, neither paper, nor printing,
nor binding, nor pen, nor ink,
can make me feel proper because
i am not a much greater hypocrite than others.

01/30/2006