Ah’m sick, doctor-man, Ah’m sick!
Gi’ me some’n to he’p me quick.
    Don’t— Ah’ll die!

Tried mighty hard fo’ to cure mahse’f;
Tried all dem t’ings on de pantry she’f;
Couldn’t fin’ not’in’ a-tall would do.
    An’ so Ah sent fo’ you,

“Wha’d Ah take? “Well, le’ me see:
Firs’—horhound drops an’ catnip tea;
Den rock candy soaked in rum,
An’ a good sized chunk o’ camphor gum;
Next Ah tried was castor oil.

An’ snakeroot tea brought to a boil;
Sassafras tea fo’ to clean mah blood;
But none o’ dem t’ings didn’ do no good.
Den when home remedies seem to shirk,
Dem pantry bottles was put to work:

Blue-mass, laud-num, liver pills,
“Sixty-six, fo’ fever an’ chills,”
Ready Relief, an’ A. B. C.,
An’ half a bottle of X. Y. Z.
An’ sev’al mo’ Ah don’t recall,
Dey nevah done no good at all.
Mah appetite begun to fail;
Ah fo’ced some clabber, about a pail,
Fo’ mah ol’ gran’ma always said
When yo’ can’t eat you’re almost dead.

So Ah got scared an’ sent for you.—
Now, doctor, see what you c’n do.
Ah’m sick, doctor-man. Gawd knows Ah’m sick!
Gi’ me some’n to he’p me quick,
    Don’t—Ah’ll die!

REASON                /               UNREASON

the brain is                 

           an unlit synagogue 

easily charted               

           in dark waters

using machines            

           it can baffle faith

& therapy        

           it can asphyxiate

don’t worry                 

           the drowning dogs

your pretty head          

           painted for the gods

it’s simple                    

           to rage & riot & rot

to manage                    

           the vacant parking lot

with the appropriate     

           knives   do what some

medicines                    

           can not

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.