I am haunted by the vision
Of perfect mornings
Perfect afternoons
And graceful evenings
So when everything is uneven
Broken or out of place
My mind erupts into patterns
Of delirium.
Inkblot ceilings
Bloodstained carpets
The way things should be
Were or will be
In memory
Fantasy
Airbrushed to idealism
How life can be
Could be
Or used to be
Maybe that’s the real lie.

Always knowing the right
Thing to say, the right clothes
To wear for the occasion
But the wrong audience
The wrong conclusion
Being I the right time
With the wrong face.

Perfection:
The elegant killer
Of sloppy days
Evolving into disorganized months
Of crooked years
--Not even our sins go according to the boook.
When will we learn to appreciate
The beauty, the glory,
The clumsy charm of picturesque randomness
And chance?