Madcap

I have heard all writers are mad always. Bukowski grows mad surrounded by surly whores and his own filth and beer and doesn’t need a CAT scan to see the fight in our hearts. Virginia Woolf, well. O’Hara is mad with delight! mad with his own inflating passion. Vonnegut, mad, cynical, smoking Pall Malls, conversing with Tralfamadorians and Billy The Poet. Madness being a writers only useful ingredient, not the downfall, well perhaps the downfall, but their best ingredient. James Tate shows mad by the Government Lake in his last years on this Earth but not the Earth he has made for us. I will be a toadstool without paper and with it regardless of how many words reach you. In these minutes, I disassemble to seconds and hope for a few milliseconds of madness.