Improv/Imitation 2, Week 14

From Franz Wright's "Entry in an Unknown Hand"

"And still nothing happens. I am not arrested."
I crook the package in both arms and slip like
gravel through a brightly lit alleyway, no more
sleeping without the promise of disguise, and no
such thing as perfect change in this world of
kidneys riddled with paper and fax letterheads.
From the Desk of Olivia Orlando, read the note,
incriminating in its accusation of apparent guilt.
While I wrote with otherwise whipping sarcasm
and notes titillatingly tripping off the tongue,
or however it was Hamlet pretended to be a director.
Now there was a man fit for Shakespeare, a prince
hidden beneath a director, hidden beneath an actor,
all the while feigning insanity for the sake of a
lost, never to be recovered, and most beloved mother,
sure of the guilt of a most despised uncle.
I act, too, Hamlet, though not in the same capacity.
I am not insane, nor do I pretend to be; rather, my
heart beats in spite of me, "it's bowl of red blooms
opening and closing out of sheer love of me."
To stop the beating, I pretend, incessantly.