Who is a madman?
One who sees everyone else as mad?
If so, maybe I am loco.
Who is a madman?
The only sane man among madmen?
If so I am compos mentis.
No sane man ventures into the mind of a madman.
No madman peeps into a sane man’s head.
The madman’s head is a labyrinth.
The sun the only source of light.
Like someone trapped in a cave,
He follows the only source of light
To a journey of no destination.
He scampers about like a cockeyed bacchanalian.
He sees all, and understands nothing.
He speaks all, but means nothing.
He is infested with juju.
Jinxed by the juju of the bottle.
Or the juju of the Cannabis Sativa.
With all conscientiousness, he basks in the sun
Like a lizard.
Or searches for precious jewels in a garbage dump.
He is fully clothed with skin and hair
And so wears tatters like accessories.
His dementia cannot be cured.
His derangement cannot be ameliorated.
He manifests peculiarities of his pre-dementia state.
Some become fey from insalubrious Scholarism.
Some from familial origins.
The poet is a madman.
The politician is a madman.
The professor is a madman.
The poet writes out of himself.
The politician promises out of himself.
The professor reads out of himself.
The language of a poet is the language of a madman.
The language of a politician is the language of a madman.
The language of a professor is the language of a madman.
Only the balmy relate to the poet.
Only the kooky believe a politician.
Only the loony understands a professor.
For this reason, who is really a madman?
For this reason, who is not?
Isolated, we are madmen.
Together, we are compos mentis.
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