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"panara" poems
I'm facing the horizon, reclining in the cool grass, staring deeply into the pink and purple sky. It is an exemplary evening and I am enticed by its extravagance. I contemplate existence. I contemplate all our lives: The gnat licking sweat of my brow, You, Me, That tree across the street, Your dead friends, my ancestors, that hot Latina chick that works at Panara (not that I really eat at Panara). The undercover cop that won't stop eyeing me. I watch the pink fade into purple fade into nothing at all. The clouds disperse, becoming nothing more than disconnected particles of dirt and water  suspended in midair, and the sun goes down. I **** the gnat and go home.
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Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
billy-bob-will-bob-joe-bob
The fragility of us.
I'm facing the horizon, reclining in the cool grass, staring deeply into the pink and purple sky. It is an exemplary evening and I am enticed by its extravagance. I contemplate existence. I contemplate all our lives: The gnat licking sweat of my brow, You, Me, That tree across the street, Your dead friends, my ancestors, that hot Latina chick that works at Panara (not that I really eat at Panara). The undercover cop that won't stop eyeing me. I watch the pink fade into purple fade into nothing at all. The clouds disperse, becoming nothing more than disconnected particles of dirt and water  suspended in midair, and the sun goes down. I **** the gnat and go home.
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