is this normal

every day like a phone call parade
we will walk, we will talk of
michelangelo and when the nothing,
like crows on a wire, calls out
i will think again
of sleeplessness

the pot, it boils and i
boil over. my cup
overfloweth

when the moon rose high the last time
i was ready for the pink smoke
that slips between the wires
every time i start to tire
and it brought me up again,
lifted me.

and only now is the seed of something strange
foreign material, foreign policy
trying to invade, to coil black and red
against the ethereal ever that lies in eyes
and, frankly, i am strange
i cannot not let go
my nervous shudders are back
my clothes are all on backwards
and insurance is nothing when it comes to
smoke and mirrors, curtain calls, fishing rods
and current issues.

my cup overfloweth, and the pot,
it boils. and i
boil with it.

so let us go, you and i
let us go. we must, you know. we must
let us go. relax. breathe. we must just be
only i can't stop thinking of the crook of your neck
you crook, beautiful crook.
let us go into whatever happens and let go
when the sky is awake and alive
like a patient jumping from the ether.