the
dictum of the countenance—begrudging mud—treated like reasonable.
begonias
laughing, threshed inside, abbreviated in life.
longing
to smell winning, nonetheless, winning, much of life is loses.
I
would lose sanity, in one ache, if most didn’t begrudge me.
I
get silly, wondering, what has insignificance?
a
deeper soul, a novice soul, most are smarter. I carry something different,
trenchant intuition, plus, unlike others, I need some proof.
three
longer months, iced ceilings, refrigerator moods.
most
feel intelligent. a good feeling. some challenge that. it can’t be, as often said,
a mere challenge makes a person a hater.
I
listen, something is obvious, many can’t maintain consistency—something linear,
only a woman would fully fathom.
watching
matches, puffing cigarettes, fueled to live, if not to die.
at
incipience, I should have mettled, I let life creep in. running at times,
trying not to feel, can’t escape my brains.
marigold
skin, monocle clarity, measured for sanity.
as
last to receive it, last to hear it, so many will get a decent parable in me.
