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.
