I wrote this poem after--
actually, we had an assignment in my graduate class of mine
about the hypnotic qualities of poetry
or, I mean, really about hypnotism.
Let's talk about hypnotism.
It doesn't have any of those qualities, right?
And we presume rhyme and meter is something that
can get you into that quality.
But this came out of it, and thus far, it
is proved in his statement that poetry makes nothing happen--
I guess, thankfully-- right.
So we'll see.
You can close your eyes if you want.
It might help.
"The evil hypnotist plans his next session.
Imagine your head is full of angry bees.
Your tongue is made of butter and has melted.
You are made of butter.
Now you are nothing but a stain on the carpet.
Imagine, please, your eyes are cocktail onions.
They cannot see.
Your lower half is planted in sand.
The tide is rising.
Imagine you are made of glass.
You are a candle snuffed, a bubble blown--
pop.
Don't breathe, please.
You are an old pickle jar being filled
with bacon grease, a head full of dust, crumbs on a table.
You will be disposed of with a crumber.
Be still.
You are a hull of the unseaworthy.
You are the husk of the cicada, the shell the snail abandons.
You are the bed of a stream that's lost to drought.
Imagine, please, a sandbag with a hole in it, a slow leak,
a water balloon come undone, empty and nothing
until you are dead.
You are dead."
[APPLAUSE]
Yeah.