Hemingway off’d himself–
curled up under his
own looming shadow.
What loomed beyond
that shadow was the
great unfathomable.
Peering into it might
have been a comfort,
or might have killed
him in pre-greatness days.
***
Kesey’s Chief wondered
how the Irishman could live
in his own grandiosity of being.
McMurphy’s sanity was surely
built upon a foundation of delusion–
sanity and delusion forged iron-clad.
Meanwhile, those free of such
delusions huddled in the fog,
unable to step out into life.
***
Heller’s Yossarian summed
up the whole damned mess:
claims of insanity are a
recognition of one’s sanity.
Who else seeks to turn down
the volume on reality?
Other than one who can
hear it well enough to know
when it peals thunderous?
