Madcap

I have heard all writers are mad always. Bukowski grows mad surrounded by surly whores and filth and beer and doesn’t need a CAT scan to see 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- a writers famed ingredient, their ingredient alone. James Tate shows mad by the Government Lake in his last years on Earth and Ah! cursing my sanity, praying for milliseconds of the sucre.