Dreariness is for faded factor,
And all that is present
In a dialogue
Shared
Matter-of-fact
Seems almost like a fist bump in passing.

Silent, servitude to the eternal grace
Of taking care of myself.
Another load of laundry
And I still congratulated myself for the
7loads, where something monumental actually got done.

Another piece or page to fly by,
And ascertain as I move in the winds of decades
For my mind to cling onto.
Like every reimbursed
Won-argument-made-in-the-shower
And the shampoo always clap
And fall to the floor
And my broken toes
Perhaps threaten
I should break another leg.
Into dismal discourse.

It always wraps back up to the same thing.
Fear on the keys,
And I’ve made myself a piano-painting-gal.
What an oblique life
Of peculiar stature
To know it
Just keeps going along.
If i’ve gotten this far,
My deepest anxieties are to the privy that
I’m still waiting on a manual to show up:
To show me how I did it. lost time.

I already ran out of
Shots-in-thedark a long time ago,
Styles have been formulated and I rest firm
In the inspirations that encapsulate
And rather , let go
Of the notion.
I have to repeat myself to be heard.
Even the subconscious is a little louder
in-directing ,
Even if my executive management, sighs –
When it feels like there’s just nothing to do.

Gotta come up with something.
Get creative about it; this-time-around.