a dozen silhouettes gather on the crest of a hill at sunset
to say goodbye to a friend - means nothing
the flickering of television boredom
a bonfire in the rain
the dog-less dog collar in the left turn lane
nothing
a young girl tightrope walking on the shadows of telephone poles
sings a song that sounds like static and means nothing
the name of this fate is last resort, which means
it’s warm inside and the light is soft, reflections don’t reflect
too harsh off bleached tables, where strangers huddle
blowing rum flavored smoke rings around
illusions of heartbeats,
lamenting over broken backs, bent nails, empty beds,
then stagger out darkly, seeking the nothing that resembles anything
the way fence posts spring up from the ground and sprout
ugly barbed flowers in a junkyard garden - the fruit of nothing
zombie faces in arcade windows
forgotten linens hanging dry, colleting dust
words at the end of a letter, “talk to you soon”
stockpiles of nothing
a world of collisions, abandoned baby strollers, skid marks
in the left turn lane, radiation from distant stars - means nothing,
a broken tooth, bullet fragments in the drywall - nothing,
buddhist monks on fire - this poem - nothing
the madman stranded on the median between two swift rivers
of steel, wants to stab at nothing, scream for no reason
wants to clarify - picnic on a runaway truck ramp!
did you hear what i said?
i said picnic on a runaway truck ramp!
i stand now on the crest of a hill, a small flaw on an otherwise
spotless sunset, digging for words strong enough to resurrect a friend,
but every thought that crosses my lips
evaporates, becomes wind
