or the girl who told me my writing can't mean anything until i'm at LEAST 30.

so i stand in the street,
back to the dawn and width of world,
swishing blood like wine,
i turn to introspection:can i sketch my eyes?
throws my mind to midnight and dreaming,
beyond the cut grass masses
past the mummies wrapped in loose leaf,
through the marijuana halls and empty lecture rooms;
calibrate my soul to my hand? what
cosmic reach my spirit does not extend,
what sentiment excludes me

i wave to the clotted flow of traffic,
turn and face the brightness of the sun

make my way through the morning cigarette,
the campus rust and restless landscape,
lined with fruit trees,
merely ornamental,
fruits grown only to fall and
rot into the crowded shade
Last edited by Arthur Curry at Sep 24, 2009,
turn me back into the pet that i was when we met,
i was happier then with no mind-set.