Meaning.

Like nothing at all.

That's how you and I

are supposed to be.

I suppose.

For any derived "meanings"

are our own blood, only

visible in the trickles red from

flesh-toned pricks on

transparent syringes.

They live on fringes of

the realities we create.

Like the bad aesthetic sunrise:

clouded and drizzled a somber

shower of silent gray-hued

soft lights but no yellow.

There is beauty though,

we choose to label it "drearyness."

It's in the puddles and brown running

rivlets flowing in sloped green

pulled brown backyards-

and towards the asphalt steam

rusted drainpipes.

It's seen in the only child's eye,

as the siblinged neighbors share

their community in imagination.

It lives in the youthful innocence

of the only man who still

picks dandelions naming them

in their opaque tangerine vase.

He's mis-guided by

calling these weeds his

friends, no? Cherishing them

as faces of humans should

celebrate the creation of

face.

The meanings we create are

neat, little settled organized

letters in words defining

never ending spectrums of the

soil we've staked.

"Nostalgia" seldom seems long

enough to encompass the lonely

looks of Peggy Dandelion as

she sits cramped with the

pink shrimp tails the only man's

stoic wife threw her in with.

"Distressed" does not justly

depict the down-turned

pinks on the only child's face

when the for sale sign

in it's block red finality is

raised in the neighbor's yard.

"Infinite" though is the

only meaning agreed upon

worth it's salt. And it is worth

salt in wounds to see how

it's meaning means meaning

is nothing.

For in the total infinite even

the infants are nothing.

Their wails may change

bouncing off the walls to

never falter their trust,

but they grow just to be like

nothing at all. That's how

we're supposed to be

I suppose.