"A sane man gone mad
And a mad man edging
Toward sanity" are one.
Miracles must "start far
Back enough." Sagebrush
Of the glaciers. Bosh. Stuff.
It was never the wormwood
In the green fairy gave visions.
Just the hooch. Just enough.
The artist never knows
Where, why the artistry descends
And, like a behaviorist's pigeon,
Exhibits all manner of superstitions,
Every one them artier and harder
To predict than arithmetic,
Even when the artist is an Einstein,
A Newton, a Pascal, a Pythagoras.
In fine, truth never understands
The imagination that gives
Truth a reason to live, that breathes
Pneuma of John von Neumann
Into the game. The same
Magic that predicts curds
Can be mistaken for brains
Predicts brains can turn
And yawn like lions in wagons.
I have not yet begun the night.