I am disordered
Maybe it was the cocaine
Or the acid
Or the tank cars of alcohol
Or unwise reaction to the thousand shocks
That ordinary flesh is ordinarily heir to
And of the dozen or so shocks
Of which I was a minority recipient
And not inconsiderably the religious terror of a small child
Combined with the ordinary family dynamics
Of the fifties and sixties
When Father knew best
The symptoms did not come on strong until
At age thirty I started a doctoral program
And the goddamned free-play of the goddamned signifier
And professors could not or would not
Tell me what was the subject matter
Of a science called English
I tried so hard on those rotten papers
I tried so hard on that damned dissertation
And it didn’t help that I loved poetry drama and fiction
I graduated with distinction
But
It took me decades to accept
That I’m not cut out to be a scholar
Bibliographies equal drudgery
Though my wife a librarian kills at them
But
I ostensibly trained as a scholar
But
The job has always been teaching
A profession for which I have received some institutional recognition
And considerable approbation from students
The first decade and a half I thought
That a teacher pretty much dispensed knowledge
Like a Rain Bird
I liked that okay
And while God knows I still display erudition gratuitously and aplenty
I have come to see
And more to love and enjoy
That teaching is helping others to learn
And dammit they were right
Who said that helping others
Is better more meaningful more fun
Than helping yourself
But
I am made to be anxious apparently
I was the child made sleepless
By the branch against the window pane
When two siblings with whom I shared a bedroom
Breathed quietly slowly and evenly
And I sleep badly even tonight
Having left my bed
Having departed my beloved
To indulge these inscriptions
But
No priest ever showed me mercy
Calmed my fears
Like the priest in Hail Caesar
Who comforted the penitent with the words
You’re not that bad
But
I derive joy not merely from the act of writing
But from the satisfaction of observing
This burgeoning sheaf
Which you Dear Reader
Might wish might burgeon a little less
So no doubt a manic symptom
Nevertheless I approve of my unhealthy avocation
But
I fight the battle day and night with the black dog
The croaking raven
The white whale
The writhing maggot
The writing spectre
Of self-contempt
But
Let this be my epitaph
He wasn’t that bad