WEBVTT

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I wrote this poem after--

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actually, we had an assignment
in my graduate class of mine

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about the hypnotic
qualities of poetry

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or, I mean, really
about hypnotism.

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Let's talk about hypnotism.

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It doesn't have any of
those qualities, right?

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And we presume rhyme and
meter is something that

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can get you into that quality.

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But this came out of
it, and thus far, it

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is proved in his statement that
poetry makes nothing happen--

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I guess, thankfully-- right.

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So we'll see.

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You can close your
eyes if you want.

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It might help.

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"The evil hypnotist
plans his next session.

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Imagine your head is
full of angry bees.

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Your tongue is made of
butter and has melted.

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You are made of butter.

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Now you are nothing but
a stain on the carpet.

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Imagine, please, your
eyes are cocktail onions.

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They cannot see.

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Your lower half is
planted in sand.

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The tide is rising.

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Imagine you are made of glass.

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You are a candle
snuffed, a bubble blown--

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pop.

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Don't breathe, please.

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You are an old pickle
jar being filled

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with bacon grease, a head full
of dust, crumbs on a table.

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You will be disposed
of with a crumber.

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Be still.

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You are a hull of
the unseaworthy.

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You are the husk of the cicada,
the shell the snail abandons.

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You are the bed of a stream
that's lost to drought.

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Imagine, please, a sandbag
with a hole in it, a slow leak,

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a water balloon come
undone, empty and nothing

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until you are dead.

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You are dead."

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[APPLAUSE]

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Yeah.