Death of the Comic

words fail to reveal his faith
he stands and screams as the sun
drifts behind rain the wind is a sorry excuse
“what we need is a hurricane to clear the streets of God,
to release the prisoners of reason!”

He was blinded by hallucinations
they saw bugs draw out the blood from trees
singing insanity on the streets silenced denials
unobserved secrets uncovered connections between people

the currency of brilliance and blah blah
understood echoes and belief
dug up from the disjunction of tangibility
embarrassed to watch the disrobing of the minstrel
the disruption of his life
strangled by the hands of poisons

when stars die
it makes sense

he cried but we only laughed
as he fell into indulgence
and explained what he saw
on the way

we lost his words
he stopped saying them

we kept laughing
thinking he played dead