My dear crazy people,
wandering under strange roofs,
come visit my house.
Hey feeble sprouts and stems,
hey goddesses not found in shelters,
hey idler with a lame soul,
come all, gather in my house.
I invite you not for treatment,
not for entertainment,
not for a social conversation,
not to howl songs,
but to learn the art of being crazy.
The Real Awesome Madman,
like a sunflower blossoming in winter,
gives its rays to the sun,
and there is no need to remedy him.
If one can’t cope with oneself,
let comfort inhabit him,
let us be helped by grace
to befriend the dark forces.
The Real Live Lunatic
could find a star in the underground.
Like water would overcome steel.
Like grass would break through the concrete.
And those who are bustling
and reflecting realism,
are in fact giving rise to hell,
hurrying to get there.
Lunatics, interfere with them.
The bustling ones have nets,
A Madman has daring.
He can play jokes with God.
Could borrow from Him three minutes.
Could break through into His office
and not find Him there.
God does not want to sit in one place.
He would head back home
to help a cactus open its bud,
to make sure that a kitten squints in the sun,
that a gloomy crank would un-frown,
that spitting into the scowl of death,
a dandelion would push up
through the asphalt.