This is a short revisit to the sonnets of the past, containing a single piece, written at the library stacks in April of 2007.
7:46 pm, S427
contentment could consist of sixteen words
and I'd swallow a dove for lack of shit
I need something deep down to last a bit
all bids for groggy-like peace are absurd
where, then, must the human heart go flowing
if there's no place to pee, let alone dream?
frigid stacks, conform the flagrant, pristine
but inside founds expansion; i'm going
at it, at ya – active is my culture
flaming, emblazoned on a frosted glass
did i look out it or drink it like grass?
"The Library will be closing." : punctured
hopes of completion, "Rebel against-me"
reflexive verbs can sound so damn(ed) sexy
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