September 17: Tired Again, Philip Levine, "Get Up"

Got home about an hour ago from the university.  It was a long day of work and teaching.  By the end of my night class, I was almost falling asleep.  That's a pretty hard thing to do with Pulp Fiction playing on the screen.  Tarantino does not lend himself to napping.  Doing jello shots, yes.  Relaxation, no.

And I have to get up early again tomorrow.  Department meeting at the medical office.  Then, if that wasn't exciting enough, I have eight hours of computer training to look forward to.  I'm going to be drooling on the keyboard in the first fifteen minutes.  If I'm lucky, I'll be struck with a severe case of violent diarrhea.

I hate alarm clocks.  For some reason, I always wake up a half hour before the alarm sounds, and I lie in bed, eyes squeezed shut, determined to fall back asleep.  Usually, I do manage to drift off again, about five minutes before I have to get up.

I have a poem from Phil Levine about waking up.  It seems he's not a big fan of mornings, either.

Saint Marty is ready for a vacation.

Get Up

by:  Philip Levine

Morning wakens on time
in subfreezing New York City.
I don't want to get out,
thinks the nested sparrow,
I don't want to get out
of my bed, says my son,
but out in Greenwich Street
the trucks are grinding and honking
at United Parcel, and the voices
of loudspeakers command us all.
The woman downstairs turns
on the TV, and the smoke
of her first sweet joint rises
toward the infinite stopping
for the duration in my nostrils.
The taxpayers of hell are voting
today on the value of garbage,
the rivers are unfreezing
so the pure white swans may ride
upstream toward the secret source
of sweet waters, all the trains
are on time for the fun of it.
It is February of the year 1979
and my 52nd winter is turning
toward spring, toward cold rain
which gives way to warm rain
and beaten down grass.  If I
were serious I would say I
take my stand on the edge
of the future tense and offer
my life, but in fact I stand
before a smudged bathroom mirror
toothbrush in hand and smile
at the puffed face smiling
back out of habit.  Get up,
honey, I say, it could be worse,
it could be a lot worse,
it could  be happening to you.

What's to like?