I have always liked

half-mad people

(half-mad, because they can explain their madness—they can function—a drooling schizophrenic isn’t that interesting)

Who knows if

the mad response, is not the rational response—

most of society is repressed, anyway.

I write on an old typewriter to get the stories out

somehow

the sound

of click click… space bar…return

is music to my ears.

I love the smell of hot black ink.

When I write on this electric machine

from the 1970s

my emotions get out

of my body

and when I go to the grocery store to buy

fizzy water

I am completely vulnerable

paranoid—

at the roving mobs of male teenagers

at little girls in horse riding costumes with whips

at mothers who don’t want to be mothers, their jawlines set, like fighters

there isn’t much pride in the ring

just blood and sweat

and angry fans, chanting, “Give us a show!”

as I hold my breath, driving

out of the parking lot.

Yes, the question should be asked, am I crazy?

I don’t think so…

Most people are unwilling to examine

what they do

If they analyze that, and keep doing it

they’re crazy

Maybe, they’re just negligent.

Which is more frightening, a parent who leaves a baby in a hot car

with 10 things on their mind

or a parent who doesn’t want a child anymore

and aborts?

Both are horrifying

Yes, the human race

will be finished

one day,

and I will be on the side-lines

cheering.