I was sick. Sometimes I think it’s too bad I don’t really write poetry. This may or may not be one of those times. Sometimes I think it’s too bad I find such pleasure in simple ambiguity. It’s like finding freedom in the lost and found. True to irregularity, the cruelest joke to play.
The other day I thought I’d write something called A CONFESSION and it would consist of the following five words: I am not my thoughts.
My thoughts thought of many appendages to that first statement, some clever jibe or playfully self-debasing affront or cryptically somnambulary touch of angst, but none felt anything much other than contrived. And contrived, I’ve learned, is not good.
The fact was, my thoughts had again turned less than beneficial to my general health and I needed something to call them, needed to call them something because calling them something is control and also sometimes art, though this is not why I say I was sick. I say I was sick because I truly was, and it truly was unpleasant, and now I’ve truly changed the subject, true to form.
M. 
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