Semi-Automatic Guards

Semi-automatic guards are never in love except at close range.
Semi-automatic guards love themselves like a steak grilled eternally in the backyard of manliness.
Semi-automatic guards taste the postmark of mailboxes.
Semi-automatic guards feel fall fade in the coldness and in the shelter of their Kevlar vests.
Semi-automatic guards cold cock a drunken kid at midnight on Thursdays.
Semi-automatic guards find me oddly alienated in my dreams and with half the firepower.
Semi-automatic guards are semi-hard semi-daily.
Semi-automatic guards in the mirror at home see wrinkled inlets leading to the delta of their eyes, what they’ve seen are sediment of pedestrians, detritus of daily life.
Semi-automatic guards suffer the least amount of nagging injuries.
Semi-automatic guards know that duffel bags signify the gravity of vigilance, sunglasses symbolize the shadow of doubt, clothes the harness of skin, weapons, and unleavened heaven.
Semi-automatic guards eat expensive sandwiches of roasted pork.
Semi-automatic guards wear bags under their eyes like built-up sediment, like suspicious shadows in moonlight, like the moon guarded the suspects, like the moon was never a suspect, like the sediment broke off a half moon, like a half moon isn’t their full eyes half the day.
Semi-automatic guards who patrol this poem could care less.
Semi-automatic guards enjoy the routine, but need to use it once, twice, and then care less.



Copyright the author(s) ©2007–2014