Is it because they numb themselves with the ritualized trivia
of baseball, football and basketball games on Sunday afternoons?
They chew too much bread with their mouths open
and the salad of their life has no dressing.
They got no spice in their groin, no oom-pah-pah
in their walk as they flatulate their way down the street
full of blah- blah-blah to whoever is not listening to them.
I prefer the company of fools like me who are mad to live --
who want to see, hear and touch everything,
exploding with the one and only life I have to live.
I want to be the music of a flying saucer
with infinite maneuverability of pitch, tempo,
tune and texture -- the only truth in the universe.
If that makes me crazy, then so be it.
I want my heart to be a flamethrower that heats
the beats of the staccato drumbeat of Gene Krupa,
introducing me to be in the limelight of the day.
Being insane is always much more fascinating
than sitting around yawning and scratching your ass,
counting the dead time of one day after another.