Poem Number 19467

Celebrating With the True Psychotic

After too many internal conversations
regarding feelings, empathy -- such conceits,
explorations of endgames, strokes in lead,
scribblings, as anyone else would call them:

there was evidence of a cocoon formation.
He, who admittedly, had never killed anybody
(larking, boisterously, like a buffoon
that it was 'because nobody is worth killing'),

was beginning to find evidence of an enclosing shell.
skin, once so soft and smooth, so fluent,
scaling up in a kind of hive pattern.
You see, when code of life wrought with such malice

is rewritten, every literal aspect of it
begins to simply sing.
Sing, can you imagine?
Like some crazy person, in a teal suite

with an umbrella.

Thus for the psychotic, a transition
whose location was not a place,
but events, just occurring,
singing to him.

Feathers whisper numerically, proudly.
Footsteps of the human ants self-cataloging.
A seed, a plant, awakening ...
Everything was always happening

now, in plain view.

/runningvein