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illustration
by Albert Dorne ©
|
before
the food arrives
I
am hung over at the diner
I
am barely able to articulate
a
gesture to arm my moan
for
coffee and a large water
with
a little ice
I
am here at the altar
of
morning too soon
I
am not quite ready
to
bury this past night yet
she
is saint plastic applicator
with
her classic black and white
apron-ed
skirt ensemble
she
says, she wants to be
a
heavenly creature
she
says she remembers
what
arch-angel Wurlitzers were
she
wants to be just like one
lost
in the shine of chrome
framing,
glowing choices
she
says, she’s electrically wired
to
where she houses tithe-tether-kites
on
each side of the skill crane
I
tell her, yes
it’s
true, maji
follow
the stars
they remember
each
piece of eight
we
are born with
they are always
carpet
salesmen
willing
to sell
the
rolling and
unrolling of infinity
and every floor
it gathers upon
ceilings
they say, are illusions
they
always whisper
near
the reach of ash
they
smoke little cigarettes
they
draw stars
circle
black math
they
string names and numbers
in
the salt patterns
they
trace each pulse
we
place on asphalt
over every
skin
through Winter here
through the rust
and dynastic charm
of upstate NY near where
the
Mohawk and Hudson rivers meet
ceilings they say may be illusions
but they are circular
and
devoted to knowing
the cycles of trees
the
quiet Sunday
in
this part
of
America
is
a prayer service
snuck
in
a
rendered
commerce
flow
a
slowed self beneath
the
static radio ice
and
sneaky greasy
spooned
bayonet
I
clang cheap flatware
conducting
my hand
as
if everyone could hear
the
imaginary symphony
welling
in my head
I
marvel at the durability
of
cafeteria industrial china
the
coffee made by the gallons
blooming
its scent in the steam
while
newspaper bird sounds
become
opinionated
spark
forests of rustled pitched
rises
and falls of conversation
brushes up against
the windows
everything
settling
into rhythms and tides
inside and outside
the glass and steel walls
I
sit at the end of the counter
trying
to listen to sock monkeys
on
TV talk about Jesus and
the
asteroids that keep on missing us
while
I wonder whether zombies
will
collect precious metals too
after
all the humanity is gone
she
comes back
I
tell her two eggs over medium
wheat
toast, grapefruit first
raw
sugar, keep the coffee coming and
could
she bend over a bit
on
the way to the kitchen
I
seemed to have lost my hope and
fantasizing
about her ass
passes
the time much more divinely
EJR
©
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