The interplay of light and sheets, a shadowy show
of clouds passing hills, the coruscation of woodwinds
and the wheezy crescendo of weak instruments winding
through my eardrums; I blink, I blink twice
I measure the scale of the room through crust-rimmed pupils
I palm a greasy scalp, exhale through a web of mucus and
ephemeral recollections - dregs of the night's dreams creak
in a reel of psychoanalytic hogwash, interpretive nonsense
textbook cases of hallucination and visual distortion
That mark me as a mid-grade madman, look Ma;
I found a way to make insanity average
I make mental illness palatable, I make HBO late-night
programming into Lifetime specials, where bad endings
can be erased by Ben & Jerry binges and a particular
type of Semitic self-critique: "I should really get to bed,
I hardly sleep enough, that must be why I'm neurotic
That must be why I juggle numbers and blueprints
of silos in my head when people try to interact with me,"
That verbiage, that prattling on and on; your problems
are a construction that your mind has fabricated
because you got bored living a normal, ceaseless
Sans Coda existence, you needed Gnossienes and
clanging, you were starved for cymbal warring and
tom-tom thumping, you plead for a heart of darkness
a life of calamity, you stare wistfully at images of
malnourished children and see a profit to be made
Off warfare, off sacrilege, off blasphemy
You sit in your faux silk-lined IKEA throne
and deign to the masses, the lower classes
forgetting that the room is entirely empty
and would stay that way if you brought an end
to these sickening attempts at emotional sovereignty
You want control over the chasm of meaninglessness
that has become your passing of days
You want a hand on the reigns so damn badly
That you've woven a cool web of language
Placing you in disadvantage
So you have at least a meager chance of progress
While the lucid-eyed, meek men chuckle under their breath
and witness a fool blindly crawling in a straight line
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