Notes on Madness

Madness- much like any other drug-

is appealing because it never

seems to end.

In the unconscious, I think, there is

a desire to hold, unbending, to

a system of desires.  Longing

comes to mind.

The pattern of an ambulance

siren seems to sync up to

the pitch – the highest pitch

that the ear is capable of holding-

at the exact moment that

one can no longer hold anything else

within the tubes that carry thought

from one place to the next.


it sounds like a screaming baby.

I kept a diary of words

organized in a system that

I called poetry.  When I

was younger.  I tried to

commit them to memory

in an effort to make the

meanings (I assumed)

being conveyed last as long as

I possibly could.  Apparently, I was

only supposed to live to be 18.

As I forgot the word-systems,

I realized again and again

that there was no such thing

as a fact when in referrence to

matters of the mind.

Madness, much like a ticking

clock, is intimidating.  It can

end without warning.  You might

feel suddenly as though you

were caught in a line at the DMV

with no pants on.

I recognize there are many

instances in which I failed to

let go of grief.  Grief is

worn on my body like the

skin on my back; often

unattended to, ever present,

vital to my survival.

Breath is captured in the lungs

for a fraction of an instant

(a subjective mental fact).

Held long enough, it can cause

injury to the brain.

It’s dangerous to let go

of something at the last


It can also be dangerous

to not let go at all.

I wrote unanswered letters

to people I never intended

to receive them.  I was  surprised

that my breath could catch on

disspointment.  I believed in

building my own emotional


Madness. In layers.  Held

beneath the folds of the brain;

straining against the skull.

Bright light in a box.

When last I challenged these

systems of words, to produce

long-lasting meaning and effect,

I was still growing.  Child like.

I didn’t want to go into that room.

All of the beautiful people and the

colors and, the weary application

of optimism.  Behind the door, I

was perpetually 16.

In front of the door, the girls

were always laughing.


My back creaks now.

A rusty door; a condition

of age, hard living, bending

to nurse broken and

compressed bones…

The first time it went

completely out

I was having good sex.

Releasing air in waves

never before realized by

my lungs.  I had to stop.

And I held my breath again.


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