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.
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