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The Tragedy of Man Who Finds Comfort in Madness

D. Michael McNamara


��[The last words of a dying man convinced he is already dead.] I have horns and wings. Intent and malcontent at my whim. I can fly through your dreams or dance you through day. [Stuttering and coughing up a Lucky Strike, stumbling what he believes to be straight but is global in condition, tilting polar, following the latitudes.] I can walk straight and still end up in the same spot. I wash by letting the swollen clouds swim past me. [Bloodshot and disillusioned; acutely romantic but highly ignorant.] I’ve got thunder in my lust and whiskey in my veins. I drink your thoughts like wine and sail around your conscience like Magellan mapping out the new world. [Dreaming of the beaches of Calais....] Upon my death all the observers thought I was flailing for help but I was merely making a snow angel in the sand, leaving my mark on this world, placing my link to heaven. [Dreaming of the cliffs of Dover....] And now I’m at my throne keeping watch over the English Channel, across Finland and into the Ukraine, into the vastness of Canada to Newfoundland and to my back porch of Balleycastle. [Shuffling barefoot kisses with gritty linoleum with an impotent- impeded erection from the tickling breeze.] These white robes are representative of my mortal endeavours: I don’t regret my regrets so I wouldn’t change a thing. I can drift around forever. Here I can cry alone, do all the crying I never had the courage to do. [Drifting into the infinite terminal love in the hospital planetarium.] Here I can make voodoo doll’s of the planets, spin them around like marbles. I can swallow the stars and feel their warmth in my chest; I can yoga with orbits and trace their ellipses with my breaths. I can confess to the sunspots; I can orchestrate the eclipses. Here...I am finally happy.



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