Poem of William Hermanns

               Are You Normal?

You are normal. What a grace!
Blest be the direction of your lust!
Blest be the he who sleeps with her!
O holy Eros in a fleshly crust!

Our normalcy, our rugged male,
lives with cement and food-drugged death,
begets in nylon sheets his child,
and microwaves play with its breath.

Alas, what's normal is mediocre,
what's common mixes with the crowd.
The genius, he stands alone.

His mind is tuned to the infinite,
has common with normals the flesh and the shroud.
He's not like us! Who casts the first stone?

Hit him who created St. Peter's Dome,
the Last Supper, the Divine Comedy,
or Hamlet, Faust, Nutcracker Suite,
Paradise Lost, the Ninth Symphony.

Come Normals, look, point with your finger
at Socrates, Nietzsche, Kant and Keats.
Unnormal feelings -- devil's lust:
Despicable people in our streets.

Poor normalcy, perfection's illusion,
creation has no walls — all flows —
and gives you no advanced degree.

Mystery's glory is deviation.
Einstein said, "The fist, how bellicose!
I am better than thou. What blasphemy! "

Love has no instincts like the beasts,
joins not the Normals' marching bands.
Love is conscience's chosen child,
has holy creative hands.

                            William Hermanns      [P296]