-slipping into "bedlam and part way back"-

1.

ghosts of the confessionals, dead by suicide, are out to get me.

It’s nothing personal they say, but I'm told I should mind my own business.
It's true, I've slipped into poetry like a lubricated piston, without

a bloodletting commitment, and with sorely lacking academic credentials.

so tonight’s the night for a good dose of self-examination.

regardless, I’ll read another confessional along the way, followed by

a personal offering to serve as chaser.

2.

last night's piano playing by the Labéque sisters continues to roll

around in my head, (Francis Poulenc: "Concerto for Two Pianos")

and complicating matters, a local car dealer's boisterous nasality is running

on television like a mad cartoon.

but of the principles listed herein it's only "Ernie Boch"

who can put me behind the wheel with little or no money down. 

3.

the time is ripe for a pre-reading snack.

there's a sugary Xtra Mart across the street, but even under harsh

24 hour interior florescence it's been robbed at gunpoint three times

in the past six months,–– or at least I've imagined it could have been.

common sense tells me I shouldn't chance it.

It's with Anne Sexton tonight and we've come to an understanding; 

she'll allow me to approach the precipice of the abyss, but I gotta keep

my mouth shut about it.

"To Bedlam And Part Way Back" / Anne Sexton