I've been hopping clouds lately. I've
hit eight or nine.
I feel like an eleven – you know,
better than fine,
Despite living in a family of
cannibal/sacrificial goats,
Which is to say we think it's nothing
to cut each others' throats,
Which is to say my happiness may not
require peace,
Nor must it require a romantic contact
or release.
Am I rich? Then do I need money? I
doubt it.
My old music helps, but in the past
I've done without it.
It seems all I need are ideas and a pen
To feel damn near a twelve, with his
sights on cloud ten.
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