Song of Chief
After seeing One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
Laughter is written on the windows—insanity
drunk and swinging at night—ornaments
on a sad tree—liquor
in the hearts of he who bites his lower lip—good
morning—waking
up smiling and finding a broken piece of glass in the hand of a boy—and blood on his dead neck—
She deserved to suffocate in McMurphy’s hands.
Chief! I watch your face as news comes—Mac?
Did he run?
It’s night now and the door opens—in
comes McMurphy, dead in his head,
like the way he came in months ago
after electroshock therapy—
like before he winked his eye last time—
like him before he broke your chains.
Chief! McMurphy belongs to you, now—
anything he was went out of the twin scars on his head—
“At least I tried,” he said, after trying to pull
the faucet block from the bath room—You tried,
too, and you succeeded.
You smother him and run
and I’m running with you.
