February 17, 2013

whole grain tablatures...

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


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