(the Catcher in the Rye): Dear Doctor Thomas Jacob
I saw my Psychiatrist this morning. he told me I am not crazy.
I guess not crazy like you say, but emotionally deranged.
(The Great Gatsby): Jaques I couldn’t stand. In my dreams i had a different life
a rich home, and fine clothes, handsome men at my beck and call.
– but in my real life that life was but a nightmare.
And now I am in an asylum for madmen, waiting to be either put away
or turned into another of your dreary photographs of society’s desperate
– Moaning my one complaint as they passed by as sad creatures
passed by, wherever they have gone I don’t want to be seen by
any human being ever again.
They passed by (Eating Raoul’s Chicken Dinner):
Was it something I said? Could it be it?
That what I’m doing now is merely a sequence of scenes from my latest movie?
Did I pass my exams in this life on account of my ability to put
the good word “Valentino” in every sentence I uttered, and every image I created in my mind?
(Flower Moon): What do you mean, crazy? I had just lost my head, and everything I had believed in
had flown out the window, (Rising Sun): But I was crazy.
When I read the story of Mowgli’s lost tribe, I was so moved I picked up my spear,
and chased the beast into the jungle. (The Great Gatsby): It was, I have often thought, the highest form of flattery,to be told one is mad by a madman. And to go home to one’s self, after such praise,
and believe one is mad as well, and that one is really just a hunter-gatherer, a plant eater, a mother who has eaten a boy. That is what made me become a hunter-gatherer, and carry the name of a one-footed old man. I see no difference between the man I am and those I read about.
I am a madman.
(The Catcher in the Rye): Where the slant of light has fallen across the room tho’ it is darker than I have ever seen it, I see in the mirror how scarcely a sliver of a blade of light is stained across my eyes.
Not a single drop of brightness shall ever overtake this pain.
Not a single mirror-speck.
– To Sleep, Perchance to Dream : Oh, but your own scars are blood,
your brother’s anger-stained sword and from the smoothness of your skin
your mother’s tired face.
They say that all those who are born and survive that war-zone, have only the vaguest
imagination of what it really was like (The Great Gatsby): And there you were
almost wounded, so unwounded that you had your curiosity burning bright, burning to know something,
of all things, about yourself.
And then this fateful rain sparked a wild fire, which it seems, you were the one to conjure
when you opened your arms wide, Your wild fires lit the world.
(Germain’s Rondo):
She never left my side
during the year
she died
and I always slept like a fool.
Her candle, always warm,
was the only light I had.
My only one.
That is what I remember, that’s what I remember most
of her.
I, Have Quoted Jaques:
I had no tears for my father.
(The Great Gatsby):
She told the six, and they did not move
or speak a word.
I guessed at their thoughts. – and I knew I was the one
on whom the act was done.
And I was not proud.
– To Sleep, Perchance to Dream :
I had no tears for my father.
– To Sleep, Perchance to Dream :
I had no tears for my father.
:: 02.28.2022 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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