Madness is addictive.

Spinning in unfinished circles and
cleverly hidden tea pots and
bright green hats and
leaves and things.
Having a vague and uninteresting effect and influence
on the people and
the pope and
the people of the pope.
Spinning
faster, faster, faster.
The lives around become a blur.
A memory of a
memory of a
memory of an
imaginary being.
Fast, fast, fast.
Crying.
Madness is good to slip into, they say.
Writing notes and
grocery lists with
your own blood and brains
and tears.
Repeating the lines of a memory
of a poem about a Spanish prison.
Crying on Death Row.
Walking down the street with hidden wings.
Cutting and trimming the
clouds and dreams.
Behaving well on Wednesdays
and teaching the dog theater etiquette.
Throwing bricks at the ******* next door screaming,
"Kerosene burns slower than gasoline!"
Signing the edge of a razor.

Life is bitter sweet for the mad.