It’s easy to hide in the confusion of madness:
anonymous among the riot of lunatics
undetected, deep in a Haldol fog,
slumbering in lithium’s cotton hush.
But where is the sport in that?
He’d rather sit with you face to face,
his vespine countenance searching
yours for human superiority:
A smug grin under a squinted stare.
There will be no hysterical laughter
or Latin curses, no grotesque gestures,
threats or prophecy. Just a conversation,
sane and bland as accounting or laundry.
Where is your old serpent, the reptilian brain?
he asks, scanning for traces of that vestigial
wildness, the ancient sentinel and its good sense.
His probe returns no sign of the beast.
Good old fashioned instinct
abandoned in favor of modern intellect.
The two of you have a laugh about this,
neither of you anything less
than a peer of God.
He has found your misplaced certitude
and hands you the sledgehammer
which you accept, sound in the truth
of following your heart, which has now
been re-calibrated for self-destruction.
You’ll heave the instrument of your undoing
into the walls of your soul as if it’s the perfect
and right solution, the logic of it—pristine
and beyond reproach, coming too late
to understand that the Devil’s secret weapon
is your rational mind.
Published in New Millennium Writings, 2012