Sometimes I feel I'm going sane,
subterranean.
I am adequately bermed
like indolent endomorphs
by my own pleasure-less leisure—
it can't hurt if it doesn't hit—
though few would thank me
for the taint of my endorsement
(best is not always most pleasant).
Celebrations of correlation and conformity
interrupt the unexpected hunt for charlatans—
conspiracy of the arbiters.
Even the insipid need insulin—
goodnight, sweet prints.