maybe I should regain

my faith the way
I hang my head over
my plate when I am
finished, it must seem
like I'm praying, my
sighs are, could be,
confused for realizing
or an enlightened
understanding, my
solitude in Maine,
however, can be
confused for nothing
else but a miserable
attempt, a botched
self-improvement
that has lead to
a, my, mental breakdown
not even a good
breakdown, one worth
having, like the
good artists (creeley,
bukowski) have,
my series of
unfortunate events leaves
me able to perform,
sustain like the oily
one-legged pigeon
you kick at out of
disgust, who sadly
hasn't died
pecking, crawling in
half-circles