Cafe of Lost Love Draft 1

I have torn away
fabrics
and I have made myself
some tea.

IN
    the cafe of lost love
I sit by the door and window;
it snows outside
and when the door opens
I feel the cold
invade my body.

I miss you
so much,
my best friend.

Ode to Java Hutt

Today,
my diet has consisted
of coffee and cigarettes
as I sit in this café and read
about “Top Girls” and
wish that I still had some of the
philly cheesestake I had for lunch.

The barista is really pretty. I like
her hair and her name: I think she's called
Nikita or Nicky or something that start's when
an N and she does her job well; she's been giving me
refills of dark roasted coffee for the last three hours
and the place isn't all that crowded anymore.

It was when I arrived,
but now I sit on a comfy black leather sofa

and think that this might just be the life
and that this is probably my favorite place
to get coffee.

I came here the other day with a friend of mine
who was like 40 minutes late because traffic

and I came back today because
I really wanted to read and not stay at home
and continue watching reruns of "The Office".

I love Steve Carrell,
my god I love Steve Carrell.

Maybe I should just give up on this inconvenient
dream of trying to be a writer and go and sell paper!

Really I came back not because of boredom
or because of a lack of quality programming
on netflix,

but because I met a girl
and she was interesting
and I wanted to get her number

because I wanted to know her better;
know her more.

She hasn't come back,
so I sit and drink coffee
and read silly books.

Helpless

It was as if

I lived in a canyon.

I dreamt of Morgantown and the milk trucks.

I miss home;

the trees and valleys

and the blue- grass'd Appalachian foothills.

I remember the summers 

where the lawns would        

hiss in steaming heat

and drown in late

afternoon- humidity.

I was alone

and I was always

                         traveling 

 traveling 

             traveling;

I wanted to be alone,

I wanted to

call out and hear nothing except

silence broken by crickets chirping. 

It didn't snow; I always wanted the snow.

I wanted to skate away on a river

that led to some deserted desert

where Coyotes sang ballads

to Ophelia.

No Regrets, Coyote,

but have you gone

to Mexico?

Did you ever need a reason to move?

                        ***

I rode in a car out east.

We crashed somewhere on route 66.

I borrowed a coat

that belonged to James Dean 

and thought about my father,

who had died weeks earlier.

                        ***

I was in Savannah and it was spring 

and I saw a bench and took a seat. 

The number 9 passed me by

and I thought of the irony. 

Two blocks later, searching for a heart of gold,

I mined my way to a bar 

and ordered a drink.

It was warm,

I didn't mind; 

I was running behind.

Outside, I met a man; 

Virgil Caine was his name.

We both worked the land; 

I was 24.

            ***

In the distance, 

I hear mountain music

and the Tennessee river isn't far away.

I see an old man at the stream. I’m a lot

Like him. 

The wind blows

and I cross and walk roads:

How much longer must I walk?

Can't I just ride the river?

Will it take me as I am? 

There's no snow.

I can't skate away.

A big yellow taxi pulls alongside

and in the sky

I see Amelia's Model 10 

and think

It may have been a false alarm.

The Simonds Variation Draft 1

It was love, but the slow kind, I had to wait for you in jellyfish time.
My confidence has been shaken, like waves that crash 
and know not the hurricane, whose strength is but a crime 

from which the embattled embryo stirs and cries. 
The evening light which glows bright, seeps unto ash;
It was love, but the slow kind, I had to wait for you in jellyfish time. 

An age of wisdom, an age of sorrow,
mime together like Selleck’s mustache.
They know not the hurricane, whose strength is but a crime 

felted and fed like dying of the sublime. 
From all years that cave in together, like a flash; 
It was love, but the slow kind, I had to wait for you in jellyfish time. 

Before the breeze, when the sky was scattered lime 
hung together by memory cache; 
We knew not the hurricane, whose strength is but a crime 

that molds and builds lives, thru, rhyme.
My mother said that everything is balderdash, 
and that poetry is repetitious, like an enzyme.
It was love, but the slow kind, I had to wait for you in jellyfish time. 

Fragmented Voices

I can’t begin the narrative

or finish the story

            The color of the sky

the wind blowing

            The angry greying towers

in dusk and winter

            The streets full of potholes

or the potholes full of lamented lines

of yellow and white

            that fill this page as I type:

                                                            Fragmented voices

                                                            singing their songs

                                                            in unison

            We r like

kids like babies like

            beings in another time,

another place;

            dystopian or u-T-o-p- ian

etched against bodies plastered against bodies

framed as polaroids
                                                                               

it is futile of me

to resist the urge

of diaspora.

Vogue

from wall street banks 

            2 big 2 collapse

 2 

an empire of 

            “status quo” 

clinging 2 life on the backs

            of dead blacks 

and

                       2

clut - tered 

            defacto x -tian morals

and 

                                                small town white amerikkka 

            risen like a crimson tide wave

crashing 

            and ripping

and stamping 

   the blue and white vase 

            that once held daff O dils;

Come on,

vogue 

                                   let your body 

move

 to

 the 

music.

from fat stacks 

            and fast cars

 2

buildings    towers    tv shows

2

“let’s build a fence” 

            2

                 it was better when Reagan 

was      pres

         i

dent

            2

we’ll build “wealth” thru interest rates

on education

 loans

and homes

            and everything will be great 

as long as “wealth”

 is created

            for executives

making more in 1hr 

            than a laborer in 1yr

Come on,

vogue 

                                   let your body 

move

 to

 the 

music 

from where we stood 

            2 

here we are

            2

this is the way it is 

            has been 

always will be

and

            from 

once upon a time,

            back when i your age…

            2

we’re at war 

            and they’re crossing here! 

Come on,

vogue 

                                    let your body 

move

 to

 the 

music 

donald trump

            michael pence,

sitting behind wooden desks

            commanding departments

full of dicks;

            that are just as ig 

                                    nor

rant

            they’ll cut back

all the net’s 

            demolish the EPA

take away our right to 

            choose 

insist 

            that it

was never a right

to lose

Come on,

vogue 

                                    let your body 

move

 to

 the 

music

                                                and all I can see

                                                is the wasted earth,

                                                her soil turned from rust

                                                to ash;

            and when I think

            about the song

            that once was sung

                                                                                    tears fall from my eyes.

                        we’re departing for our journey

                        and there is water;

                        the river is vast 

                        and the air is cold.

                                                the boat rocks

                        and we’re packed together so tight 

                        that even if we tried to step forward, 

                        we’d fall backwards into mist that 

                        now is all that can be seen.

Molli's Poem

Molli says: 

            "This is a metaphor / this is not

             a metaphor

I am stuck in an elevator" 

            For Christ sake, Molli! 

Say what you mean! 

            Are you or are you not

stuck in an elevator? 

            Do we need to get a jackhammer?

Will a SAK suffice? 

            Or is this just a language 

game?

            If it's not, 

it could be worse:

                        Steve Tyler could be trapped

alongside you. 

            I wish I was trapped in an elevator

with you rather than at home with nothing to do

but read posts on fb. 

            My life sucks.