If I have already
gone insane
but I want to get
crazier yet,
what’s my move?

Go outsane?  
Crazy outside means

Attack of leaf blower,
mind wound down
like weedeater string;
the smell of suddenly
snipped neurons;
amphibious on gasoline,
when two strokes are
none too many.

How many RPMs?
How much throttle?

Green guffaw, 
zero turn.

In the end,
I throw myself 
to the ground
and roll around
on freshly mowed grass
until there’s nothing left
to cut.

Note: This poem first appeared at The Literary Bohemian. I thank them for publishing my work.