Poetry Friday, The Galilee Hitchhiker, Part 8

Insane Asylum

Baudelaire went
to the insane asylum
disguised as a
psychiatrist.
He stayed there
for two months
and when he left,
the insane asylum
loved him so much
that if followed
him all over
California,
and Baudelaire
laughed when the
insane asylum
rubbed itself
up against his
leg like a
strange cat.

I had to ship my sweet sweet laptop off for repairs earlier this week. I am bereft, I tell you. When I got my laptop three years ago, I packed up my old iMac to give it to, um, . . .well, I never figured it out, and thanks to my total lack of charitable know-how, I was able to dig it out of the closet and hook it up and--voila--after a few sparks and grunts from the old beast, I am in back in business. Sort of. For example, you'll note that Friday's poem is appearing on Saturday morning. That's how slow this computer is! It's an ancient thing. OS 300 b.c., I believe. My cable modem can't stop laughing at it. I swear to god I can hear gears or something cranking in there.

Anyway, nothing could stop me from posting the penultimate part of Brautigan's "The Galilee Hitchhiker." I suspect I am enjoying posting each part each week more than anyone is actually enjoying reading it, but for me it has been a grand way to transition into the new year. Baudelaire and cats and opium and flowerburgers and ceaseless drunkenness! I simply cannot get enough. And each week, I find the part strangely applicable. This week, for example, I have been thinking about the crazy quite a bit. First, who can ignore Brit Brit's plight this week as her spiral downward lands her back in a California psych ward? (And who can speak of her without falling into entertainment reporting lingo?) Second (this really should be first), madness is figuring large in a few things I am teaching this week. Third (ok, this really really should have been first), I have been pondering over but reveling in my own total lack of mad depression this winter. (Let's just review that priority sequence: Britney, my career, my own mental health. Hrmm.)