success is counted sweetest
take a look at these--hands--
fluttering like moths against a light, with that same rat-a-tat-tat-tat,
that foreign sound.
no one expected a winner.
from the onset i wore my face against the light like
one of those silhouettes::
diamante pangs and hand-wrung tears--
a drag smile, mouth's filthy greasepaint and long false eyelashes,
my beard, my constant companion, my anchoring stream;;
what mirrored my soul was blacker:::
peering into a lacquered bowl, reflection pooling at its bottom,
like an antic color case left out in the sun, running, pregnant
with maggots. but i was wrong, i was wrong,,
i am the winner,,, i won.