When I Was Sick

A man named Anis Mojgani has a poem titled “when I was sick” I think. By I think, I mean I know he has a poem about a day when he was sick, but I only think the title is “when I was sick”. He is a writer, so conceivably the title may be much wittier or deeper or both. Things can be both witty and deep. I want to believe that. I want to believe that wit is not just the surface struck with a sledgehammer, resounding in little concentric ripples of cognizance out across the pond of our consciousness. I want to believe that wit can be deep and subtle also, less like skipping a rock or pounding a sledgehammer and more like…..fishing or something. Cast back the line and let it fly way down past our ears and our throats and into our chests…let it sometimes snag our hearts and dance playfully with us before the untamed beat wriggles away. I want to believe in wit like that. I don’t know why. Anyway, Anis got this poem, and the title is uncertain, and it’s about a day when he was sick. I wonder if he wrote that when he was actually sick. Cuz I’m sick today, and while I’ve been thinking a lot about a lot of things, I don’t think I could make anything an actual poem. I kinda wanna plagiarize some shit right now and slowly let my own words take over, like they did in that movie Finding Forester where Sean Connery is like this wannabe badass author and has this ridiculous line where he’s trying to mock a black person and it’s like “YOU’RE THE MAN NOW, DOG.” I remember laughing at that line when I first watched the movie, but the older I get, the more I just find it lame. Anyway, when I was sick the bed sheets opened up like portals to another world. I was just layin there in bed and alla sudden I felt my feet slip through into something I didn’t understand. Something deep inside of myself told me not to panic, that I was as safe as…something really safe. I closed my eyes and sent a mental postcard from the edge of consciousness, it said: dear mom, don’t please don‘t cry--I’ll be back soon.