to live happy where I live,
one must believe
that squirrels are no problem and
weeds are flowers that last longer
than those from the grocery store
and crows only sing in choirs for a joke,
all musty beliefs,
whose aroma lifts me and leaves me
among other worthy ideas that hang
with those
musty beliefs
when I notice being happy, after
suffering
the inefficiency of evil,
this day, enough, a sufficiency
of failure
every day,
to staunch my pride from damming
living waters flowing from
the kingdom within to
this rest of the world I partake in
as the joke the crows were singing of.
(You are so vain. ) What a line.
I thought the song was about me,
that line, anyway.
My thirst quenched, gentle breeze from the west. A zephyr I'd say were I specific, at the moment.
