poem 462 of a poem a day for 2012

jazzing myself for your eggs

so we hail taxis

lurching in a neat

pale invisibility

behind glass,

motor and intention

we are after

what midnight has

between death

and the Dawn

we careen to the nearest

greasy coffee joint

full of grit and bones

wanting leather 

and bright light

a gold trim 

surrounding

a smoky hazed

speckled formica

in here 1962

is stuck on play

as if it were

the orchestral movements

of guardian rituals

late night eating

and drinking long looks

back into just happened

night here is like

a watchworks with eyes

caught and dazed

by the smell

of everything

where we finish

crawling for dreams

music drifts

beneath each thought

between bites

between savors

between sips

between every tiny birth

and brewed little phrases

bending to words 

slow melts hearing 

past bombast's 

busy bloomed din

amidst alcoholic hunger

in the right circumstance

of curl sanctuaries

finding enough warm

stowaway poems to hide in

white noise

washes away

all but the pieces

of us that remain

building each way

the world seems to say

something new

every time 

we slow down

and carefully chew

all its food

for thought

EJR ©