No better time
to slip into
the unreality of the mind
than on a rainy afternoon.
Like falling through
the floor
like entering a wood
on a hill,
dark and looming.
The slip is simpler
than expected, the drop
faster than the eye can picture.
Just watch the wind
rattle the palms.
Just watch the people
walk by, soggy shod,
In one, two, threes,
and then step back,
slip out of normal
like a favorite old coat.
Fling backward
back up
to the base
of your skull,
and watch the color bleed out of the world.
Outside the window
a tepid wind blows,
misty and moldy.
There's a smell of street grease and
smashed dog shit on the air.
And the trees sway
and drop their spray
of sodden leaves.
And the flowering bushes tremble
their little flower petals
in their red clay pots.
And people rush away
from the misty slate sky today.
They hold hoods to their down turned faces,
pursed and pressed, pinched, they pray
for spring and sun and play.
But part of them stays.
You see soul scraps
sticking on the pavement, formed from
oil spots, in the shape of shoe treads.
The greatest thing
about insanity is
all the newfound color.
The marvelous shapes,
and the opal of souls,
stepped and stamped down on asphalt.
Places these walkers will look back upon
with the faint kiss of reverie,
never knowing why
or what they've lost.
If you take the time to do it right,
insanity is beautiful.
To see the residue of lives in their course of motion,
to become a regular Renfield,
and hunger after souls,
laughing in your throat.
It's worth mashing your brain,
pressed to window glass,
wherever you may be.
Even considering all those ugly faces.
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