We should meet for coffee.
We’ve waited until the ache of despair
has passed and our bones have not rotted yet.
We have curled hair and painted nails
before the years took both fine strands
and cuticles from our corpses
and we still flip our heads
as if the hair and nails sung tones
crafting spells on all in our paths.
We should not wait to break bread
and sip coffee brewed from Arabica beans,
we must not wait any more.
I haven’t been around long,
but I would hope you could listen
Someone so professional
I fail to see your vision
You want improvement
That I can see
But you refuse to allow the chance
for such a reality to be
Vintage brown four-door Mercedes
probably from the 70s
surfer dude in bare feet
Have you seen him ride his board?
beached on this city street
taking a nap in the backseat
legs lean out the side window
ghostly feet under white blanket
switches to front seat
lights up, big smoke comes out the sunroof
starts it up, drives off in a puff
From my vantage point on the couch, I can see two
flecks on the wire, each moving opposite
to the other, like watching a highway
skirt the horizon line. Traffic is light
on North and Southbound. There is time enough
for these rat racers to pause, lift
themselves, leg to leg, thorax to thorax,
peace be with you.
They break, heading in their respective directions.
I return to more important matters.
Vas-o-con-stric-tion, sing to me O muse!
Make tight like vises these opening veins,
as strong conviction when been disabused.
Send light you upon my unthinking brains!
Just right. So take ye now a writer’s pains
enditing such unsightly addiction;
make light of it not, nor feign restriction,
only write thyself in thine depiction.
What do you taste in that he would ask
My daughter blames my father,
for everything she learned in preschool–
when he was her babysitter–
about bourbon
and the world.
He had suffered a stroke at age 61
after he retired to fish for the rest of his life.
He was her teacher from his lift chair
where he kept his bottle of sipping whiskey
down and out of sight.
He would take out his bottle and take a sip.
Then he would have her take a sip.
Then he would ask her to spit it out
and tell him what she tasted.
She got better each year.
When she left home to work with
Wolfgang Puck in his Chicago restaurant,
She leaned how a chef cooked.
When Wolfie, as she called him divorced,
his wife took him for half of his restaurants.
My daughter went to New York
to enter a contest, judging spirits.
Of the also 900 entrants,
she won the contest
and the grand prize, a trip.
She was sent to Australia to visit
vineyards there, all expenses paid.
She came back to the USA
and got certified to judge spirits.
She designs bar and stocks them by tastes.
She became the only woman to judge bourbon.
She mixes age barrels of bourbon and mixes tequila.
She still blames my father for all her successes.
She takes his skill with her
All over the world.
Who says cupcakes aren’t a breakfast food?
Finger friendly, same ingredients as floppy flapjacks.
Only oatmeal eaters and other such flaxy prudes
would claim cupcakes can’t be a breakfast food.
Neither frosted nor sprinkled, banana muffins look nude
on a plate, particularly to the preschooler who wisely cracks:
But, MomMom, cupcakes are breakfast food!
They’re a lot more funner than flappyjacks!
wheels twist underneath
slipping you down dream roads
past fields, distilleries, river cities
away west (or east, your choice)
hum and roar hum and roar
a companion duller than most, but
companion all the same
to thoughts of where been
where going
journey
destination
objective
purpose
there being
