deepundergroundpoetry.com
Editing the Cottonwood
Everyone is enjoying their breakfast
the church of bacon and dry toast
clink of knives and forks against
water glasses and coffee cups
while my fruit parfait slowly
swallows its nesting spoon.
Old friends come to stay
and I'm rememberin'
hangovers are hell.
The restaurant is packed;
they ask, "Why so quiet, Tamster?"
[insert much winking and snickers]
I don’t know what to say
to get ‘em to leave me alone
with the view, cept, maybe...
“A.S.P.I.R.I.N.”
They laugh, their eggs
running sunny side up
with their heads cut off
makes my stomach roll.
They turn to each other again;
I thank God for small things.
The cottonwood swirling outside
of the window has kidnapped me
edits my imagination; blizzards
of Poetry against drifts of yellow
verse under a TOO bright sun
even with sunglasses on.
I chuckle to myself but not loud enough
to get their attention; we all resemble
Plain-clothed agents this morning
God knows how we smell.
If ever I didn’t belong anywhere,
It’s here in this over-crowded
noisy-ass restaurant
without paper or pen
to write with.
Damn cloth napkins.
I contemplate toilet paper
in the Ladies Room
and the red kiddie crayon
lying on the next table.
This unfolding epiphany
from an aching head
too tired to stop the train-
wreck of a Poem seeking
any place to quickly crash.
Escape the dictational route
of the tracks bound
to its wheels like handcuffs,
create a Poetry commune
somewhere in the desert.
I don’t want the moon
the stars or the sun,
the sky the rain the wind
planets of the Universe
nor the wealth or status
of the upper echelon.
Only these poetic interludes
between us, and perhaps
a gentle and patient Wisdom
to not fuck up the greatest
Happiness I’ve ever found.
~
the church of bacon and dry toast
clink of knives and forks against
water glasses and coffee cups
while my fruit parfait slowly
swallows its nesting spoon.
Old friends come to stay
and I'm rememberin'
hangovers are hell.
The restaurant is packed;
they ask, "Why so quiet, Tamster?"
[insert much winking and snickers]
I don’t know what to say
to get ‘em to leave me alone
with the view, cept, maybe...
“A.S.P.I.R.I.N.”
They laugh, their eggs
running sunny side up
with their heads cut off
makes my stomach roll.
They turn to each other again;
I thank God for small things.
The cottonwood swirling outside
of the window has kidnapped me
edits my imagination; blizzards
of Poetry against drifts of yellow
verse under a TOO bright sun
even with sunglasses on.
I chuckle to myself but not loud enough
to get their attention; we all resemble
Plain-clothed agents this morning
God knows how we smell.
If ever I didn’t belong anywhere,
It’s here in this over-crowded
noisy-ass restaurant
without paper or pen
to write with.
Damn cloth napkins.
I contemplate toilet paper
in the Ladies Room
and the red kiddie crayon
lying on the next table.
This unfolding epiphany
from an aching head
too tired to stop the train-
wreck of a Poem seeking
any place to quickly crash.
Escape the dictational route
of the tracks bound
to its wheels like handcuffs,
create a Poetry commune
somewhere in the desert.
I don’t want the moon
the stars or the sun,
the sky the rain the wind
planets of the Universe
nor the wealth or status
of the upper echelon.
Only these poetic interludes
between us, and perhaps
a gentle and patient Wisdom
to not fuck up the greatest
Happiness I’ve ever found.
~
Published 16th May 2017
| Edited 17th May 2017
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