You once asked me how I made sense of anything.
Most people think in terms of files and boxes,
where they store the contents of their head.
I have arrows that point up-ways and down-ways,
left-ward and right-ward. The things that I can deal
with disappear into vapor and the things I can’t stay
chasing each-other around—names, faces, and words
that are stuck—impassible, unmovable,
and what I am against such a force like that?
I don’t even know what the hell I’m supposed to be doing—
you keep telling me that if I applied myself I’d be great,
but I don’t want to be great because great people
always die terrible tragic deaths because that’s just
how the story’s supposed to end and all I want is to be
un-confused and not uncertain and straight and narrow
on the straight and narrow, but I can’t because paths
don’t work like that, not real ones, they’re twisty
and uncontrollable and I just keep going until I don’t know
where I am anymore, but it isn’t Kansas, except I don’t
know that because I’ve never been to Kansas,
although I don’t think Kansas has the monsters that crawl
around in my head or the skeletons buried in my eyes,
but it doesn’t matter because I’ve got a road to walk and
I won’t even try and make sense of any of it, ever,
because like a dead great person who died a terrible tragic
death once said, that way lies madness.