Thursday, September 02, 2004

Any night with cops is bad.
I turn and say such platitudes as quickly come;
they, ever answering, tell me of dismal fates
drunk-tanks and rape.

Touch it and burn, I say, but burn
I must, and even so stand ready for horizon's flame
which may indeed be sunrise

tomorrow, though, is made of broken eggs and aspirin
dryly choked and muttered

it does not matter now
but I long for the promised
orange beauty
Always it is the seablown coast that appears. In lonely dreams I see it, a private and hopeful place, drawn far from any encumberance I can name. Shoals, airfields... it is rife with romantic possibilities and is devoid of human interference. I long for it, would strive for it if it were even remotely possible.

let be the finale of seem
the only empororer is the emporoer of ice cream