Once Your Coffee
I cannot wait
Another merciless week in January.
The gods have conspired,
And I am now a demented peacock.
I went last night to your balcony,
Lit dimly by a kind moon
In a still sky meant for lovers,
And waited.
I poured what used to be your coffee
Into a carcinogenic Styrofoam cup
And spooned in 2 bold ounces
Of carcinogenic powdered creamer
And drank as if sipping
A goldonaya grog or glogg.
I ate frosted white cake too,
But your balcony, empty,
Stared at me,
Speaking to me as if I were
A brother to Adonis.
The talks were classic;
Everyone had blacked out
On numerous occasions.
During the prayers to God,
I searched the circle for you,
And I approached the kitchen afterword.
“Is Juliet not here?” I asked.
“No, she is not.
She will be here next week,”
Said the new girl cleaning your coffee pots.
Outside the air was cold,
And the car was cold,
And the moon was now cruel,
And the sky was blank and black,
Et cetera, et cetera and so on.
I want Bear Bryant
To pound the idea of perseverance
Into my brain.
I swear I want you,
And I need your voice.
We could have been shopping
For antiques in Frederick this weekend.
Great stuff. Think about your form. Count your syllables and map them. Is there a regular pattern? That Form is your Daemon. There is no such thing as “free” verse. A Form in fact forces you to dig down since it won’t let you express things in an obvious way. In my art, my Rules are just a path to my subconscious. For example, I “compulsively” paint in monochrome which is like forcing myself to go out running on a cloudy day. You find the damnedest light. The short line (see the old English poet John Skelton) expresses a nerdy… Read more »
thanks for the correction about matisse and erudite comments, analysis.
love the random ,chaotic,romanticisim of this piece 🙂
thanks!