Depression is boring.
Let tears spring as sprightly as piano notes.

If I had any luck at all,
I’d have some rum.

Hot-eyed, I look up, aspiring to warm the stars.
But cold and uncaring, they just grow colder.

The plot of life, Kemosabe,
Trails off in a grave.

To navigate the dark fog of amour,

Trace the silver lining of small talk.

Red, moist lips finessing fine, lovely words
Arrange a lavish display, sun-lit.

Still, you breathe pain with every breath—
Until you fall, breathless.

129:1 pg.12 (2005)

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