POEM: Literarily Insane

Hemingway off’d himself–
curled up under his
own looming shadow.

What loomed beyond
that shadow was the
great unfathomable.

Peering into it might
have been a comfort,
or might have killed
him in pre-greatness days.


Kesey’s Chief wondered
how the Irishman could live
in his own grandiosity of being.

McMurphy’s sanity was surely
built upon a foundation of delusion–
sanity and delusion forged iron-clad.

Meanwhile, those free of such
delusions huddled in the fog,
unable to step out into life.


Heller’s Yossarian summed
up the whole damned mess:
claims of insanity are a
recognition of one’s sanity.

Who else seeks to turn down
the volume on reality?

Other than one who can
hear it well enough to know
when it peals thunderous?

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