There is some kind of madness in this world
that paralyzes, and makes all the sunsets appear in sad little puddles
divided, and broken down narrow city streets
and it's been a warm and mad summer
full of what is normal, but strange - hardly any bugs
and things are as they are: normal and mad
It's been a summer of talk and talk is normal, but not always mad
not always true or distorted or candy coated
but this summer there is plenty of candy at play
and plenty of truth and good old fashion lies, all normal
and many pray like romans these days
asking for the sweet toffee madness to be delivered
on cool carmel apples in the bugless heat of a summer swell
the summer pulses like a heart watching and dwelling in the heat
overheating, unswollen, and normal baking in the sun like a scarecrow
droned and hollow to the sight, all normal
soon the summer will fade, make a transition without notice
and flop lifelessly on the ground like a fish
all the lucky prayers, and candymen will join hands and rejoice
walking in a circle around the lifeless summer scarecrow fish
with madness in their eyes, all normal, sweaty, and bugless
maybe evil, but evil is normal
maybe better, but better is never defined just right
and all will be glad and normal
for fall is here
and we've written, finally, the book of life

Under the unremitting clarity of a
summer sky they met, one last time,
to say goodbye. She, stiff and puckered
as a frozen prune, could barely force a
smile, a thin rictus across the swollen
softness of her face, like the blackened
lightening **** down the pine she stood
beside.

He put his right hand on the trunk,
leaning in to look her in the eyes, his
shaven head bending into shadow, his
newly-minted uniform crinkling into place:
“It’s only a year,” he said; “the war’s almost
over. I’ll be back before you know it. We’ll
have the biggest wedding this town has ever
seen!”

His shining smile beguiled her, as it always
had. Her mouth unfroze, a salty tear prickling
on her tongue: “Don’t you go and get yourself
killed,” she said; “I can’t raise junior on my own.”
She patted her yet unswollen belly with her
right hand, placing her left on his bending face.
“Don’t let Curtis lead you on; he’s crazy. You’ll die
there.”

At that he laughed, a solid, good-natured
sound, as he drew back his head and grabbed
her hand in his. “I’ll be careful,” he said. “We
can Skype every night. I’ll be with you every
day.” He paused, looking up at the cone poised
above his head. “I’ll be able to go to college; I
can work; we’ll live with Mom; you’ll see; it’ll be
fine.”

“We’ll live with MY mom,” she said, smiling
up at him. He laughed again, putting his arms
round her shoulders, pulling her close, bending
down for one last kiss: A cloud obscured the
sun, throwing them in shadow, as he whispered
“I’ll be back. I love you so.” He straightened,
gave a salute, turned precisely, and headed to the
bus.

Under the unremitting clarity of a
summer sky they said goodbye, she—
to have and raise a son, he—to
die.