Unmad. He thinks himself unmad,
Excited by the mistaking jabble of his tongue.
It's delightful.
And then, in a moment, tragic.
"I am not that person," he whines,
Horrified by the spitfall of his elements.
Seeing himself, standing there,
Unspotlighted on the sidewalk,
Old man failing, going, almost gone.
And then it's vanished:
That moment of abominable knowledge,
Of self sight, of self-piercing.
He's lost again,
And lecturing.
He has become dictionaries,
Torn pages.
Can't understand the restraints.
Tied to the chair,
How can he outrun the placodontia?
How vivisect the unrecognizable belly of the morning?
"Let's not hazardize the cornstalks,"
He says,
Speaking to the ignorant viscera,
To the unfeelable balloon.
The cold that incarcerates his memories
Lets nothing move
Except the dead fleas of lithochromatographic parakeets.
"My connubial," he says,
Recognizing the woman as a nameless wife.
"My connubial bliss."
"I'm your doctor," she says.
But he's drifting, gone,
Floating through the dummyweed pentagons,
Amused by the impertinence of birds,
Lost in his unexpectable attacheship
To the leading philopornist in hell.