at these prices
you would expect
the bread to be
sliced by Jesus himself,
offering himself
with a can of grape juice,
on special .
under these ceilings
a heart might stop
in awe as the neck
cranes back for
a view of arches
detailed with angels
and their bosses
with not a cobweb to
disturb their conference,
with names like these
on plates this ornate,
you aren't sure if your
about to eat a meal
or commit some crime
against decorum,
in a city whose ills
slip under the
short circuiting radar,
it's easy to dream
with eyes wide upon,
sitting straight up
in your chair
in amazing taverns
overlooking a Pacific Ocean
that is black
as secret ink when
there's no sun to shine
on the coast
that's been carved up
and built upon
and otherwise carted away
in trucks to landfills
where nothing grows
but resentments and
gun registration,
every newspaper sold
from corner machines
tells you what day this is,
each email asks you
to get thinner, richer,
bigger than jackhammers,
at these prices
who could afford
not to spend
a little more, scrape
some more shavings from
the credit card
and dampen the
scream under the lamp
by the pier on a night
when clouds and sunsets
riot in swirls that make this city
tremble and quake under the boots
you wore to work?
Thursday, August 12, 2010
At these prices
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Get Somewhere
The taste of fruits
and the tang of juices
make this morning
slog as slow as the milk
that drips from the cracked cereal bowl,
rivulets of white beading toward the edge
of the table,
I dream while waking of airplanes
in clouds with glimmers from the window
of parched rural roads
etched between mountain tops,
nothing tastes as good as
the meals I wished I ordered
when someone else was paying,
it's clicks and small motors starting up
in air conditioning units
that wake me up the last desperate inches,
the headlines make too much noise
when there is so much thinking to be done
before desert,
Lake Milk meets the Brawny storm front,
citizen corn flakes rejoice!
The shoes are on the right feet,
the wrist watch and glasses remain where I left them,
I have one hour to get somewhere.
See ya.
and the tang of juices
make this morning
slog as slow as the milk
that drips from the cracked cereal bowl,
rivulets of white beading toward the edge
of the table,
I dream while waking of airplanes
in clouds with glimmers from the window
of parched rural roads
etched between mountain tops,
nothing tastes as good as
the meals I wished I ordered
when someone else was paying,
it's clicks and small motors starting up
in air conditioning units
that wake me up the last desperate inches,
the headlines make too much noise
when there is so much thinking to be done
before desert,
Lake Milk meets the Brawny storm front,
citizen corn flakes rejoice!
The shoes are on the right feet,
the wrist watch and glasses remain where I left them,
I have one hour to get somewhere.
See ya.
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