No Transcendental Metaphysics
Insanity’s a lot like ineffable energy.
It seems, though connected to creativity,
Nuts can be neither created nor destroyed,
Only passed on from one generation
To another. Insanity may fall to one
As a gift through the milk from mother,
Or less sloppily, through genes of father.
But shot by whosoever, the inheritor
Shall be content to juggle nuts’ origin
In mind, from one to other hemisphere,
Mapping each in turn to mom and dad,
And living limbic-bliss in crack between.
Then is energy black too? You deign ask.
And to your innocent query I reply
That the man in touch with insanity,
Well of which may, at bottom, be ebony
But whose output’s a color cacophony,
Reserves the black as simile for lonely.
And I am sorry, but lonely and energy
Are incommensurable, said very simply.
Oh! Like energy, insanity does work,
Prodigious amounts of work, in fact,
Which returns on virtual circles
To affect only the lunatic. But rings
Are yet tangent to some straight line,
Whose end is the end of all our work,
Useful here where loneliness ends
Hopefully, seen, in the eyes of a friend.