I’m hijacking emotional waves Leaving the strong winds For cracked nuts And a fire, unattended. My teeth hurt And my coffee’s gone cold – Toxic lush Even when hot. A game, I’m gone Struck me on the shoulder But hoping for an open minded Lady Who gave a wrinkled Promiscuously acquired Five dollar bill To a tourist fear trap Like a Merry Christmas card Unsigned. But I’m gone With hotel room vibes Blinking lethargically Stuck in deeper thoughts That have taken me Deep inside This unattended fire, Waiting for a spark to arise Within me Like Cupid’s golden arrow.
Slow drawl of a morning Crinkling paper And ever building list Of tasks I wanted to remember Last night Trickling in As my coffee Trickles down Bamboo lined pour over Where my awaiting mug, Earth tones of pottery, Catches the mud My memory unearths.
In the early morning hour Wind seems to lay down Rising sun sets out to warm Every frosty blade of grass And when my horse is saddled up I mount my trusty steed to roam Every bit of our home range To find my cows and learn the land For my life I’m setting out Warm coffee in the morning Another day to go about In this early morning hour.
She ran away to be Lost in another land For there she could always get Coffee in a little cup The foreign men whistled In a sweet way That always made her blush And in her wallet My once dear photo Faded away to dust And as she ordered Another coffee She asked in her foreign tongue “Have you seen Any good plays Any thing going on?” To which the kind man Smiled at her Asked her twice her name.
I am not the innocence you thought me to be I’m scarred and torn from the inside out Been held down and held out and held you in my hand And I’m not sorry I ever let you in. See, I’m a Tuesday in a Wednesday dress Walking slowly with an elegant step That sings songs of bygone; A ministry of typewriters click-clacking away, Mindfully absent, worrying about another day That’s long past the next Prime Minister’s term. I spill coffee in my hands to smell the beans, Leaving a thorough understanding Of what you do to me. Though I leave my open door ajar, I walk past and sing my song.
My window looks out Lost deep into thought. Two strings I had to pull Let go their fray Unwind I went along the walk River and then back Which brought me to a stranger who Said I had two letters of mail Being symbolic of my thoughts, Left me on the precipice Until my coffee had arrived And aroma filled the air.
Life is lonely There’s no getting around this fact; There’s no bluer sky, Or cloudless forever horizon; There’s no cup of coffee That can satisfy longer than it takes To sign your name to a bill. And when you feel you’re getting caught In a wirlwind of unlonely, A ghastly calm shall succeed Like a dance that ended When your eyes were closed, Lost in sweet reverie. Life is lonely And the birds are really singing to you, Or they’re not because they do go silent too; Sun will inevitably say goodnight Or hide behind a thick backlit veil, Looking the other way As the day passes by, And you wont reach out Because you are silently alerted To your own lonliness And it feels better, for some reason, To speak without an audible sound And inevitably pretending That your next cup of coffee Will solve all of these reflecting mirrors.
It was late, early as the birds wake. The sun making it’s trajectory project through blind slits that tickled my nose and ruffled pure white sheets that smelled of everything I had ever dreamed. I wished I had worn my own button up so she could wear it, cotton thoughts underneath the purest thoughts I could believe, her ear lobe dangerously close to my sanity I buried deep into the sleepy eyes she wiped away.
She was business and I was coffee on Sunday morning. Her ancient wooden bowls with carved and stained mosaics sat on bare shelves between three curiously new vinyl records I had yet to identify or spin, so my bare feet sadly ripped spaces beside this cocoon to leave invisible heat scores on a treasure hunt around pieces of clothing that each had still alive memories attached, each a little puddle of our reserve that began as we stepped towards our island.
As the needle scratched dangerously towards the first note, it was the crackling that trumped even her cigarette into casual, I spotted her pinstripe skirt, now draped across the wicker chair underneath a baby blue Fender Telecaster she had plugged into a tiny hand held amplifier to show me what she knew of blues.
I propped myself up with her pillow and through the patio window I saw she was looking at me.