Byline: Teenage Love Affair

Buford Youthward

An honest moment, a pure spot. To come from there is all one could wish for.

And from now on, this is an authorized riot zone. A mispronounced word. A seduction over the internet.

I ply my trade and reach for reaction, refreshment and reformation. Making due with the goods I got.

Simple sentences line up, populate your monitor, make way for meaning but meaning is something one has to make for themselves.

Language mimics nature, music mimics time, graffiti mimics space. Laughing at our humanity makes us human.

Dignity and shame swing like some displaced pendulum in our hearts while our minds are occupied with more pressing diversions.

Clear and disciplined thought increases the chance for better keystrokes, cooler counterpoint lines and slicker escape routes. So says my manual.

Train stops and tunnels whiz by like chapters in a book. Each girder, each electrical box, a knot in the plot. Terminals are starting points.

Kids kicking it off center have showdowns over billboard signs, freight trains and traffic signs. Battles over sunshine spring forth time to time.

Monitoring this monitor for a mere moment mitigates most as meaningless. Time ill spent. Perhaps.

But I have faith that maybe there's a campus computer or lonely laptop receiving this information right now and on time. And here's to that hope.

And like the poet whose mission is to express in a few words what might not be adequately described in many, I hope you are better off for clicking a few keystrokes this way.

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