works by william pham, 2005-present

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Various Stages of Mental Distress

I pretended that I was F. Scott Fitzgerald,
Standing at the balcony rail of a little hotel room
On the French Riviera circa Tender is the Night,
And I sipped whiskey mixed with melted ice cubes
    that I had pried from a plastic ice cube tray
    fifteen minutes ago, but not without some difficulty.

I swallowed the rest of the glass and then
I was in Maryland fifty hours later,
    including a stop for gas station coffee
    and a gas station restroom with paper towels
    spilling out beneath the toilet seat lid,
And I asked for directions to the cemetery where
F. Scott Fitzgerald was buried with Zelda
    and the ghosts of the men and women whom he wrote about.

There were no ghosts when I arrived;
There were only grass, headstones, and
A sharp breeze
    that made me wish I had packed a heavier jacket.

I pretended that I was F. Scott Fitzgerald,
Suffering from recurring tuberculosis, and
I clutched at a dying liver, cracked and hardened,
    and I asked for directions to the cemetery where
    the ghosts of the men whom I wrote about
    could maybe give me some advice
because I'm actually somewhat lost.

copyright (c) 2006 by william pham