high noon

coffee, black.    
tobacco, Halfzware shag    
or some other Belgium bullshit    
that stinks of distinction    
and that whiney bastard    
with those poignant and beautiful songs    
spills continuously over my melancholy    
quenching the parched dirt    
of my inspiration.    
   
The moon speaks on my back porch    
at noon on the brightest day of the year.    
I know I don't have a decent poem in me    
except to the woman I'll never meet    
yet I am inclined to weigh out the alphabet    
to intensify the anticipation of waiting    
until that agony explodes into the understanding    
that every last thing is completely absurd    
the universe couldn't care less how we feel