Marxist-self ironing:  
I’m a neo-accepter of making and being flecks of subjective misnomers.  Eating and breathing them too.  
This is what it means to have a muse. No blame. 
No poet will work in a freezing apartment except when it’s far more than a safe place for thoughts to gather thru summer. She struggles in cold rooms for little compensation and goes beyond the joy of subverting the arbiters of growing loath. Growing enlivened, growing ripe. 
 
Paperwork fastened to repetitive joy, eating and breathing them too..