The Mad Man Of The City Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I remember underneath the tranquil blue night, the typewriters knuckled
Their way, their angst towards the blank piece of paper now tattooed
With the words from a starving son of distraught -
Bereft of sleep, even bereft of meaning – starved to the bone with insignificance
That even the stars felt his warm sweat trickle
Down his spine,
Down his gut,
His feet dampen
Pressing upon
The ground
That held
Him close
To his
Sanity.

From a mad sickness not so long ago, there is such poison in the threading
Of the clocks. I know this for sure, I have seen him freeze in front of the
Mirrors, die in the rain, burn in the sunlight, sleep in a bed of sharp thorns.
At times, I would find myself walking past the empty halls
And from a distance I can hear the loud laughs and snickers of
The people of the Sun – they held no consolation
For this child of the moon.
This mad sickness from not so long ago,
Took its toll – I am a freeway,
A vast open space meant
To be stifled with such a speed.
This mad sickness
Overthrown
This man hence,
The madness!

So mad that the
Typewriters break
At his infuriated thumping -
So mad that the
Papers burn
With the heat
Of his words.

So mad, that the sickness
Sank into his even madder
Self.