out of the wilderness hunched a grey breaking dawn premosaic and unisexual shadowing id, like wall-posters among down town ramparts brick holes to stay warm in little bars with little bands and unknown brews and north eastern forests a tide riding svelte new york far west the rambunctious fieldboots front running destiny and making arboretums out of natives all so they may rest on their laurels indivisible, and atomized like housing projects, named after what they were built atop among the pines and warless outposts a truck stop to absolute oblivion a flicker in the lamplight of lust last stop seattle, last stop the cold pacific little more than the fruitless panegoisms of sterile pollination between bedfellows, between classmates another bullwhip for the unmarked years angsting like a discography full of scratches and silence, with no one to listen. They could go deaf from their modernness, the noise and throw their glowing bricks into the sea with no one to notice, and no one to care. gorging poseidon on glass apples made of others toil Another unnoted page, full of unremarkable people, going nowhere.
in the bibliography of their generations autobiography in a million little ocean towns, big, and small, called 'despair'. You'll find them, still there. Trying to 'make it', still trying to 'go somewhere'.
There doesn't seem to be anything here yet