You seem to have your head screwed on about that, about what is and what is not your crazy. Well fuck you for even saying so, he’s crazy. I hate to admit it but I knew I was next in line for your crazy. She thinks he thinks she’s crazy. Well damn you for even thinking I’m crazy. Sometimes there’s very little between your basic crazy. And the crazy of the next guy. It’s unpredictable. But you seem to have a really good handle on what is and what is not so far crazy. That’s crazy sexy crazy scary crazy crazy. That song that line that dude is crazy. Who’s gonna get crazy? I hate to tell you but it was inevitable that things were gonna “get crazy.” Imagine if they hadn’t locked her up when she went crazy. That’d be crazy.
A lawn chair remains.
Mist falls away from the house.
Grilling lobsters is bullshit.
Reflect on repelling the sun.
A camera in a canoe is a bad idea.
One paddle is longer.
“Are you having fun?”
The tide is up between ten and four.
Rabbit. Two deer. A chipmunk.
Wondering about terns?
Too bad good health isn’t instant.
When the avant-garde expresses a party line, it is no longer the avant-garde.
Orthodoxy is bestial.
“Whatever is the opposite of ‘utterly panicked,’ that’s what I am.”
People are animals.
Naps between meals equals inattention.
Karma is intricately connected to a can of gas.
The high tight buzz is puzzling.
Texas, of all places.
What I like about reading poetry is that it quiets all other mind-business.
If you see me looking thoughtful, I am probably experiencing a “worry loop.”
The tension between two lines of a couplet is flexible.