there is so much of genuine madness
here in the milling house
shouldered in the blood and bone
of so many lost children
eyes turned from the sun turned cold as stone

there is so much of genuine madness
that even doctors and wise men
prescribe with a grain of salt
tucked neatly in the cheek
holding tongue in check

there is so much of genuine madness
that you can almost touch,  can just about feel
the taste, the odious taste
that maligns then lingers
in a skin crawling humidity

of malady and fear and so I reel
and run              retreat and stand
here at my door with shot gun
and Grant Wood pitchfork
held white knuckling my hand

in order to protect
with some measure
I confess
of maternal fury and pride,
my own disease.

Ian David Arlett

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