semantica

there was an answer, my life in a darkness
larger than summer stares, green mowed grass, i tell myself
these things: coffee daylight the sun goes down with
or without you, and i, like dreamed of version
of me, take my chances with the heroism and kindness
of rare pale faces in the front of alleyways
lit back by cigarettes and debating the term "living"
without a doubt, this turns tray around
(admiration); further than our walks allow
a little piece of heaven-dandy fingers in belt loops
a burden let loose, these little tragedies
we consume like fire-foods, at night there is no Keats, no Shelley
just Sartre and these demons will chase us all out lives
through great semantic jungles across pages and
over booksmarks, past commas and into
the future, which is all quietness and blended drinks
not cable shows and televised hangings.

but us here, like a growing semantica garden
puts tables to one side or another in diner before setting water glass
down and lighting a cigarette.

2004-06-27 | 12:00 p.m.
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