my past was
a mess. . .
eating me alive,
but I flipped the tables
on it.
Covered it in checkered cloth.
(red)
Sucking up the whine.
(white)
And stopped tossing bread
after baloney.
(blue)
Shaped pasta from
a past,
and repast
was
–I gotta say—
fare play.
Then presently,
my present
well, now, what about my presence. . .
more a presentation,
than a truth, so
I’m nipping it
in bud.
Forming friends
with myself to better distinguish gold and silver and tarnish, too,
my next
still so mysterious
who’s to say what’s next…
a nexus, I imagine,
combining all of that which came
B 4
2 day
–in interplay–
suiting
me
2
T.
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