Thursday, October 14, 2010

we live on in modern times with literature all around us

falling is love,
when she's moving her arms
in a flash of explanations, 
hands forming every single feeling word,
he's standing apart from her
two drags on his cigarette for every syllable 
and it's not sad, it's empty,
just empty, the emptiest thing I ever saw
with doc martin shoes and a ragged copy
of some forgotten detective novella
stashed in their pockets
outside the unnamed diner with the fourth letter burned out
in the middle of the afternoon sun
looking down at her empty eyes,
the tubes connecting her to the life-giving iphone-pod-slayer
playing the theme song of her life,
some lady-gaga dirty harry make believe empty dream,
and if he was listening he'd see its already dead
and black as his lungs and 50 years ago sad,
but now falling like love
as my car passes by and 
forces them off into the gray distance
the only word i can seem to find
in my hands is empty.

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