Hell to the condition. Hell to frustration. And
hell to itself. I might tend to my brains, pruning stems, addressing the
garden. I might undress the inner pirate, cough up mental phlegm, remain a part
of self, discard a suit in self. I might purchase a tuxedo, attend a picnic, or
walk the cemetery. Some dream inside, makes it to the surface, where I mourn a
smidgen; those born with happiness—those celebrating more than in anguish, to
hope for a fair percentage. And I might fast today, diminishing caloric intake,
maybe manifesting a rare experience; to take it seriously, to know others can,
to realize—it might be … on some level … as to let live. I might iron an old
college gown, visit a hospital, or sulk, abandoned to my thoughts, nursing an
attraction, or frustration. Alas, I might steal a mind-glance, travel into
sanity, adore with a given reason.
