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Edward "Ed" Hooker Ferguson (III)

Labeled Disabled

 I have a young mind 
        In an old body 
        (my mind was actually injured   still not totally cured) 
        Before I become too institutionalized I need indeed 
         A perception of reality, given 
         Material sanity is concrete reality 
          They are patsy whips in society 
          Yet I tire of labeling them negatively 
           They don t wait for me anymore, at least eagerly 
            My best friends on the shore of normality 
             I acknowledge the ledge of reality 
              But encourage the wedge of insanity 
               In a place where past effort is all but ignored 
                And demands, like hour glass sands freely collect 
                  Every trace that expands does an about-face demand 
                   No time to direct in the climb imperfect 
                     Stuck like a hockey puck in Rodney Dangerfield-out of luck 
                      The introspective directive is the corrective collective 
                        Still sarcastic about my pride-so elastic 
                          So tired of the world s condescension  sarcastic 
                            Usually like rehearsed and cursed and still fantastic 
                              Reversed like the snapped back-elastic 
                       Incorrigibly and horribly as I tolerate the concentrate         
                       So I exasperate each deviate as I checkmate on every
bathyscaph plate 
                        Thrown into a metaphoric zoo where cruel terms smell like
baked worms 
                          And the deviates leave what complicates perceive like a
detrimental orchestration 
                           The solitary tune of the section of bassoon 
                            And the brute of the flute in concentrated mass 
                              Leaves like the sound of a solitary loon 
                                And echoes the prose of wasted effort  it goes 
                                    No time for the sublime 
                                  Still prime-without crime