Meanwhile, Oblivious to Everything

Meanwhile, oblivious to everything, my mind's eye

just now peered into an aperture which opened to it

like a spy hole, to see a colorful cartoon of anthropoidal

tree and fungi: the tree bore on its back a human face –

the fungi, green and blue, had coalesced into a unity

supporting head and arms and hands all turned

beseechingly up to a pinkish-yellow sky: at first I thought,

well, there but for his sanity goes Guy, but then I happily

revised that bore of a banality into: oh good! since I am

picturing all this perhaps I’m wondrously afflicted

by some fractal mental illness after all, and maybe I can

slip beyond the intervening wall to join the happy scene.

Is there a navigable in-between that separates insanity

from sanity, which may on close investigation offer up its

secret: there is no in-between – they are a single game?

Are separations falsely named? Do we turn their fictions

into sneaky strategies, because they're fun, because they

manufacture mysteries without which we'd be bored? Do we

crave, therefore create, to help us like what we are going

through, another and another ineluctably delicious aperçu?

Let’s tell the Lord we know what he’s been up to.

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