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In the Queue For Autumn: a prose sonnet

Can't sleep, can't dream, can't wake, can't write, can't fuck; my steps by night, by day, an empty dance. Like an insecure lover, summer sucks--past pleasure, past pain--to sere existence.

A friend seriously into Buddha--this month's favorite flavor of faith fling--has told me that I should seek nirvana; is that one with the All, or the Nothinng? Can't cop yet that brand X oblivion while I remember the scenttastefeel of beer, poetry, pussy, breeze and visions; what it is to dream, what it was to love.

Just gotta hold on until autumn comes to lose myself once more in life's tart hum