differing hues of green refusing to reflect

        anything but a motionless cloud's ass of ominous grey --

  a 50s view--a TV's static on a darkened screen . . .

      before teenaged shooters caressed their lonely selves

        in passioned, pained parades,

        not able to wait for an orgiastic holiday,

          when all death is forgiven.

    the silence of an echo is deafening

        in a never-meant monologue - -

          pissing in the wind and staying dry,

            in a friendless tomb of memory.