What should you do when you're madly in love?

I am terrified to write this. Which is, of course, why I’m writing it. Debuted live on June 15 in NYC.

My brain has been rendered completely (and possibly irreversibly) barren by love. I’m not sure if love and poetry are natural complements or demonic contradictions:

Does being in love fuel creative passion? Or does it, like a deep, fugue-like animal satisfaction of having gorged on too much cream-filled dessert, hijack all your imaginative faculties with the thick, foggy bliss that torments limp-bodied pleasure-seekers in Peruvian opium dens?

I’ve been writing less, not because I’m broken but because I’m so whole I’ve become useless. And so the work suffers. I am a writer fed to death on honey. My genius (if I ever had any) withers under softness: it grows shy, it is bewitched and bedazzled by joy, absolutely incapable of applying itself to anything productive. There’s no vacuum cleaner in the world that could restore all the rooms of my brain to their former condition. Everything has changed.

What am I supposed to do with this kind of happiness, this embarrassment-of-riches kind of hap…