I hear Ginsberg in whispers,
“Don’t hide the madness.”
Okay, Al. Shall I let it
yoke me so I can pull it
around the square, flies sticking
to my cheeks, vertebrae wailing
for reprieve? Shall I let it
choke me until my eyes bulge
to get The Greatest Distance
when the madness finally dislodges
and launches skyward for all
to see? Shall I make of it
a joke to tell the masses
from a brightly lit stage, crooned
into a microphone so no one
sees it for what it is? Shall I
relinquish control so you may
poke me with it in an angry gash
until my cries turn to snarls
and my eyes glow red?

We don’t take ourselves too
seriously around here.