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Mad, the world makes sense
only behind our minds,
in the shadows,
when we face our wolves squarely,
with nothing to lose,
or already lost,
ready to spring from our corner
to fly on mental carpets
and visit our colorful inhabitants,
through the closets within closets,
and in the spring sunshine,
in all their grotesque glory,
and in all their pain,
as lovely autumn is summer's corpse
changing colors in its death,
to the admiration and exclamation
of tourists,
as we tour life,
surrounded by millions
of secretly broken hearts,
those slightly tortured daily
as well as those suddenly snapped,
others haunted by a single misstep
that savaged another
and gave birth to another wolf
without a name,
to back us farther
into the crackled corners
of our minds.
In the heavy rain, the crows were excited at the mockingbird's wonderful songs and cawed madly, even settling on Receiver, but then all of them flew together and suddenly combined into a great crow. When Receiver asked the Crow what he was, he said, "I'm called Dark. Get on my back and I'll take you to your Others."
So he climbed up, and holding on to Dark's great feathers, and waving to Kayess, he and Dark flew into the sky, ever higher, and where they went the rain grew harder and harder until they started to see fish around them, and saw that they were flying through an ocean. So they
floated up and came to the shore.
The night still knocks.
Nameless madness in ascent,
crystalline with unnamed wishes,
resonates to rhythms of the night-maned wind
manned with visions
to nightly dry
the world's billion wet wishes.
...continue...
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