Sanitation

Depression struck me low and hard that night. I was perched on my bed, with a glow in my face and in the center of that source a news emerged that had me floored, desperate for the destitute and other miserable beings on Bloor, I fled.

There is no treatment for psychosis

Flight, endless flight!

Began, down Madison

Past a line of cabs: a funeral procession

They will absolve the empty puppets

Thrown up, from the belly of a maddened beast

A carnivore pouring out vomit onto the sidewalk,

Strike out the dirge

Lament for the years of folly, the lager, and grub

Spent, spent, spent is the cow of enlightenment; her poor tits have gone dry.

A negation of everything living and spontaneous

The human being moved out long ago,

The rigid doll faces, the angry lout are here to stay.

And in all this madness, I turn and look at old Tengye Ling, across the street from the Madison Pub. I ask him for an explanation. How? How does he get up in the morning after the brawls and vanities of the night across the street, to wash his face and begin the Puja? Your face, it is so, placid and attentive. How?

"Quiet is a state of mind", he replies, pensively. No! I cry he is not in deep thought! This man, Tengye, he is clearly doped on Rohypnol! Sedatives! YES YES!