Radio Head

All across the nation such a celebration people in motion… The radio station in my head plays on with Scott McKenzie this time: Are you going to San Francisco? Be sure to wear flowers in your hair… I can hear every note, every nuance, every tone of the song as if there were a hi-fi turned on in the room. While writing this poem, while reading others, I hear the song of the day playing on my internal radio station. As I’m listening and writing at this very moment, I wonder aloud (to myself internally and just above the radio), Is this what slipping into schizophrenia must feel like? If you’re going to San Francisco… Is this what the homeless man on the street corner, in his filthy clothes, hears in his head as he contorts and telegraphs his internal radio station? which corner has he turned from which he cannot return? Are you going to San Francisco? Be sure to wear flowers in your hair… the hallway ahead is bathed in sterile white light. a bare bulb crackles around the next corner. what’s that? a shadow lurks menacingly around the corner. whom casts the shadow? could be the Spectre of Madness.