The Coffee Shop

the coffee shop
it is a forbidden pleasure
to go and hang out
only the elite belong
the professor
his students
the free thinking left
or so the teenager things
dressed all in black
wearing a beret
sitting in the corner
trying to fit in
while sipping at a
blueberry smoothie

Art Show

I can’t do it. They all hate my stuff. I can’t go out there.

They love it. Go out there and talk to them.

It’s wrong, all wrong. My crap doesn’t belong here. I don’t belong here.

Yes you do.

This place is so stuck up. Those stiff suits know that I am just a no talent hack.

You are good. You know what you are doing.

My work doesn’t belong here. This is a Museum. Only “real” art gets put into places like this.

Do you remember when that lady came to look at your work?

Yeah…

What did she say?

She said that she “had” to take one piece for the show.

And?

She could only take one, but she wanted to take three.

She could see your talent. She knew your work belongs here. She broke the rules for it. Now get out there and prove that she was not wrong.

I suppose…

The Other Side of Night

The morning, another wake-up
Envisioned as one of those
Movie montages with rock music
And a girl with a starboard chest
To spend the rest of your life with
She's a fighter, and that's
The best we've got
But no one will ever die
I'll take you from yours
If you take me from mine
We're upstairs with hot coffee standing by
Waking up is as falling asleep
Now start over

Revolutionary Moon

These questions need to be asked
And in due turn an answer would be nice
Meanwhile--it's supper, and shall we
Suppose with our ice tea that that should suffice

And on account of the stars and moon above
The sightly seasons spin as does the earth
And try do we to predict the weather like a fine fit glove
But no we can't, no more, no less--than our screaming birth

Thus, are sure of just a few little things

Such as the green grass and the buzz of pesky house flies

And with age and with that the wrinkle it so quickly brings

But on account of surprise, maybe rationalize and philosophize

However, what else should or could we do...?
Another morning with corn flakes, newspaper and spoon
Another place or time, a radical assault...a coup
Today--the earth crashed into the revolutionary moon!

Transcontinental

You were the best
Damn underwater basket weaver
In the whole desert,
But you took with the camels
And traversed coral caverns
Leaving aqua cacti in sandy wake

Embroidered upon your last sagebrush basket
"Whosoever, no one lives forever"
Amongst trails and tales of blowing desert sand,
It couldn't have been accidental
As watermark ocean waves,
You were transcontinental

Martin & the Mob (of Cliches)

This needs no introduction, for it was all in a day's work, and all things being equal, Martin bit off more than he could chew. It was the moment of truth and the calm before the storm when he told the powers that be, he may be ready to throw in the towel and venture onward.He didn't beat around the bush, or beat a dead horse, but seemed to hit the nail right on the head. He said he understood that the early bird gets the worm, and to the victor the spoils. However, lately bringin' home the bacon in the final analysis seemed a wolf in sheep's clothing. His bosses, the powers that be, said that in no uncertain terms was Martin not to mind his p's and q's. They could proceed by taking it by ear. Then they spoke of Martin's possible facing of the music and a fate worse than death. But he had remained cool as a cucumber and asked if he 'could just get out.' He would keep a low profile. In other words, he didn't want to be in the same boat or between the devil and the deep blue sea.Well, this was easier said than done. The bosses had skeletons in the closet and had to separate the sheep from the goats. They said there was no turnin' over any new leaves and that dear old Martin would bite the bullet and get dead as a door nail. However, Martin was as strong as an ox and as stubborn as a mule. It fell on deaf ears. So it be said, he made no bones about taking a rain check, and as quick as lightning made his way to unchartered seas. Just, that's the way it had to be.

As luck would have it, on the lam he was on the ball. By leaps and bounds he had kept the wool over their eyes. Martin was on the beach and next to his girlfriend, who was fresh as a daisy and free as a bird. As she grabbed her margarita she said, "Martin, you're so true blue." A match made in heaven. So this makes ends meet, and a long story short.

Jumping Buildings

The days of jumping buildings
And colliding and falling into crevasses...

Know now this was coming to a close
No more arbitrary swims or swan-dives
Away with capes, and back again to regular clothes
White-powder lies and sullen half-lives
Red-lights and parking meters
Out of touch the place had new leaders
Really, they did the best they could
Back again, be sometime they would

Idaho

In Idaho
It's fairly simple
There are mountains
Near sky horizons
My dear wife and I
Have a potato farm nearby,
A plow and other tools

Today it rained
We stayed inside
Warm under downy cover
And played some Checkers
Then had dinner
This can be work though
Love and Potato

Last Chance for a Slow Dance

Somehow with you here, and
These taps and twists,
Tips and twirls, a
Mending melting movement collective
Rectifies a dark sky,
Just outside,
A day of coming atom gloom

Let’s take this,
For time is short...
Girl, just like your skirt
For a day outside,
Is coming dark and doom
Our last chance,
For a slow dance
Close...rr…k?...BOOM!!!!

Long Distance Runner

Of green flag days
Long distance runner off
Worn running shoes
Old, Haggard and abused
Functional still
One foot,
Past the other?
He went best

Sad to say,
But the soles,
Such to see,
Had many holes,
Long distance runner
Though swift and fine,
Had no sight of a
Finish line

(The race was with himself)

Boathouse

Long ago of on the salt sea

A boathouse was refuge land
And land was now long down under
So many were sailing; and yet
Some were swimming; for quite some time
Their tears coming into cohesion
With a sea all surrounding
It was said they tried their best
But sad they were
So down they went
Drowning and frowning

On this day, the boathouse empty
Canoes used to be there, floating by string
Many distance swimmer made it past
A cold sea body
To relax, as if their own
They called this here boathouse home
Times end, many dived back deep
Into an aqua earth sea and its long sleep
Ocean sea, then took its salt
From the earth's many years
Ocean sea stole human tears

Eleven

The cute redhead of no more than 24 years of age walked up to the man in the vest and whispered something delicately into his ear. The grace in which she moved matched the sexy, mysterious professionalism in which she so provocatively yet so conservatively dressed. The clerk shyed away and to the adjacent voyeurs watching so intently it was obvious she was out of his league, and he knew he wasn't a slugger. The voyeurs knew as well, and in that instant of time, each knew the other knew just as well. What he knew that no one else knew, was what this ball of fire was passionately whispering in his ear. After the first-tense minute, he the clerk seemed to ease up as her quiet musings poured out...and became less robotic in his body language. She sat down and he took off her shoes and measured them with one of those metal things. He thought her feet were akin to cotton candy symphony spun by Nordic elves. He looked up at her, and she asked with a half-smile,
"What size do you wear?" as if mischievously trying to gather dandelions.
"Eleven...why?"
She smiled slyly as she brought her hand to her lip, "I don't know...just curious."
"Oh," he added, "It hangs to the left."

Distal

Thank-you for dining locally
Albeit by yourself, you're not lonely?
On your fine knitted sleeve
Is a safe logical reprieve

Outside it's raining and you're waiting for your ride

The water washes, but doesn't affect your resistance to abide

The umbrella you hold high trying to stay dry
'Cause something up there really knows you in the sky

You arrive home and put on the stove
Pour a glass of wine fresh from the grove
And home an hour, you have yet to change
As you like it, they're out of range

Tomorrow, things much the same
Really, you've no one else to blame
The opposite of the ocean
A lack of common commotion

Mr. Balmer

When this person is born

What will I be doing?

Where will I happen to be?

Hopefully, he is praised and state licensed

And no, I could never know

And so, I will go on with the day

To live a glorious life

Full of sunshine, empty of strife?

Right next to a trophy wife?

And obedient children that pray

From me to the little ones...

It's circus circularity

As the little hand follows the big,

As with the clocks upon our walls

And its long arms pointed

Coming 'round

Cummin' around

With that, it then strikes down

If lucky, I'll have some calm...

As then, that person will so embalm

(We had met before, but only he knows that)

North Cinquain

Snow days
Things are buried
And you are way out there
And there is so much more between
Snow daze