The Mad Square

I stare at a blank page thinking of names,

promising myself that I will never write

just for writing

and that I'll never use a word

to describe an empty space.

Robinson Jeffers,

Rimbaud,

Rachmaninoff,

someone asked for directions to Goulburn Street but I couldn't answer.

too many names in my head I guess,

too many pictures of desperation, hunger, war, prostitution and

persecution, disease and power and propaganda.

The Mad Square.

this poem exists for one reason only,

a humble tune for brave people in mad times

when the last of us lost all humanity, every dime and every meal

but not hope

or the strength to fill our lungs

and scream.