Cummer

Cummer in the earliest Fall

The singer seamlessly stops mid-lyric and slings a breathy “hey” my way

as I wait for the waitress, shoulder to the wall.

Hey.

Plate glass reflecting shifting shades of surrealism (and painted sunglasses?)

refract a popular culture that aged out of power decades ago. 

I’m fidgety at a table by myself, trying to channel this energy properly but

my pen taps mad against the paper.

Brain, be still.

It’s actually still warm outside but

inside the Atrium the best kind of chill has descended,

driving my fists inside pockets.

“Stand by me,” on repeat, three words exhaled through gap teeth.

Listen: to electric guitar somehow quietly shredding,

to the soft back and forth pad of of the singer’s feet.

Listen to the shotgun scooch of cafe chair against carrara marble.

This music is more suited for fields

trodden down by gathered bohemians

than this current configuration of whispering art patrons

And when the singer drifts off key

doubtless no one notices ‘cept me and that’s fine-

I can keep my mouth shut.

Now Showing:

I don’t know you, but you said I do

and suddenly now I want to 

 

(there’s no harm in curiosity)

Stitches

1904 // Before Wackness Descended

In Jacksonville the riots are on TV

as a gaggle of child rappers take the stage.

The shrieking faces shrink down to LCD flatscreen height and width,

contained in the space of a pixel and as easily overlooked.

I can no more blame than explain my interest

in a 19 year old plastic pitbull of a human being,

a walking gimmick, a schtick-up if you will.

Stitches and the other youngbloods are glitches

in the pop culture matrix which makes this student

of the universe perversely curious.

Thankfully the pain of aging is quiet, mostly, though

sitting on the floor of 1904 with my head relaxed

against the rattling speaker cabinet I feel the clamor crescendo.

It’s midnight on Thursday and I have work in the morning.

Through a haze of – body heat? Fake cocaine? Wannabe endo?

Who knows what this thickness is that hangs over our heads

but the strobe lights pierce it effortlessly and through it I see

a groping and desperate thirst somehow crammed

and coerced into young white bodies.

I feel like a bully. Like I oughta get this superiority complex examined

because I can’t understand it, the clear rift dividing sincere from riff raff,

the blaring transparency of marketing turning its keen eyes on us.

You didn’t come to this stage by your talent, motherfucker. Who’s paying for these beats?

You disgust me, turning me even against weed, on stage looking like an eggplant

with a skullcap barely on your head, flashing a set of shiny golden teeth.

I feel like overturning every table in this tainted temple,

taunted by televisions mounted on historic brick.

Mmm I’m too old for this shit

Keep Walking

Mellow Mushroom Avondale // Keep Walking

Truth is I haven't felt comfortable in this space for a hot minute. Too many advances in life, too many detours to keep up with, etc. Too many half-written poems lounging in the draft box. Too many new faces that I haven't quite pinned (penned) down yet. 

Or maybe it's just that my new phone doesn't automatically upload my pictures to Google anymore. Even this picture here is from...what, June? I've lived a thousand lives since this neon sign hovered over head, a T.J. Eckleburg of my very own. "The only piece of art here!" I exclaimed, excited that the new Mellow Mushroom had at least one saving grace against the seven flatscreens anchored to concrete block, only to realize - duh. It's an advertisement for Johnny Walker. I haven't been back since.

Which, really, encapsulates the symbolism of this summer quite well. 

The creeping feeling that marketing is catching up to my tastes... it's insidious down to the core. 

But. All there is is to keep walking, keep bringing home suitcases of thoughts to unpack and mull over. I was born into this strange amorphous existence and it's my self-appointed duty to appreciate it as it is...