103 Degrees of Madness

the writer, sick in bed
at the edge of the darkest ideas
he goes down to the river
in a dream
and leans into the wind
and takes a puff
in the smoke he disappears

maybe the genius is a sickness
maybe the thorn is the god
everybody wants the edges worn smooth
nobody left alive
no harm in the void

i can hear him
down on the rocks where the water flows
at full force, without hindrance
he is looking at the last fall
he is looking at the hollows
fish swim in the pools
but the water is filled with fools
and the foam and the spray both announce
time to shake your rattler
time to clutch your sheets
you are dying in the great hereafter
it's your dying that makes you complete

the artist went to darkness
and walked nimbly on the tumbles
and fell anyway
fell into the fever

thanks, neil

(written in honor of Neil Young)