Predictability of patterns cry for yawings
of earlier phases. Comfort of certitudes
are like broken down loves or authors and
auteurs who once stirred our sally but fail
to quicken. Colors of my canvas aren’t of
my making. Rigidity is an enterprise of the
spirit. Hierarchies aid and aggrieve. Moon-
shine dulls sensory aches. Lips widen when
liquor soaks the esophagus. I’m an argument
against myself.

editors note: The inevitable skewing of self-pasts depicted by other painters, as tears in our beer. Or, regrets, straight up with a twist. – mh clay