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I
Who knows where the madness springs from, whether a well bubbles and gurgles up from the belly of the soul, spilling out the mouth, eyes and ears, or a pill is popped to do the job for you. All I know is my madness is placid, like a silent winter wood or a soft sleeping breath.
II
Writer’s block, a roadblock of the mind, with a checkpoint manned by grey-helmeted men who stop you sternly and don’t talk just blast their whistles at you in angry bursts and frown and won’t speak won’t move won’t let you go through just stare you down forever until you realize that you hafta get out your vehicle and walk the rest of the road.
III
I’m lost in the fog of infancy. Eighteen I may be, but I sure as shit couldn’t tell you where my mind is, whether it’s traversed the echoing canyon synapse between social seventeen and my current age, or simply in hesitation limbo somewhere five miles right of intelligence. A guy in my position wants so badly to fly—dammit, flee—the coup, but it seems one of my hands is still firmly gripping the warm queasy comfort of my parents. Parents. Now there’s a word that brings colorful faces! Rolling eyes and sighs and jack-knife cries that echo through the halls and kitchen. What a hellish thing, a household! And yet…
IV
I need to find a new place, a new experience. India's cool, but my neighbor's yard'll do just fine. Sometimes at night if I can't sleep I'll go and lay in my backyard listening to the ocean and the city's snoring. Other times I just walk up mountains and watch the moon set and the sun rise. If I am asleep then I just hop through the sand dunes, smelling that beach smell and tripping on logs.
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