A quart of champagne, one pill too many
and a paper from the state saying I am "a mentally ill person."
Was it the pills or champagne no

simply some orange roses in a glass of water
on the bureau to transport myth from the pillowcase
into black and white orders
on a piece of paper.!f I tread the straight and narrow
I should no trouble, do what's
expected of me, realize my friends
are not my enemies, and get rid of

them both, as the orange flowers tomorrow
the pills will be digested, champagne evaporated
and only paper left, along with old friends
that shall drift down as absent orange juice.

to cascade stair feeble central system, lovingly, longingly
with heartfelt consternation of how to examine
the doubtful belief that good is God, and God the only love
or awaking, alone in bed, has it ever been any different or
shall it be?