Archive for coffee

Stop Making Sense

October 30, 2009 at 11:08 pm · Filed under coffee, flight, night, poem, poetry, rain

American movies, double feature,
Talking Heads and Laurie Anderson,
in Sesto San Giovanni, the night before
we flew to Barcelona.  You laid your head
upon my shoulder and purred softly to sleep.

Walking back to the little hotel,
you took my hand and leaned in close.
But you had a husband at home
and an Italian boyfriend, too, and
anyway we had that early flight to catch.

Next morning, over strong black coffee
and hard rolls dry, I wondered in silence
about your tall and eager body, a mystery
unresolved, and every place I had never been
and all their varied customs.

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Nine Affirmations for Nine Nine Oh Nine

September 8, 2009 at 10:04 pm · Filed under God, breasts, cherry blossom, coffee, grape, human heart, legs, love, lovers, lunch, lust, moon, naked, night, poem, poetry, sex, sexual, song, star, tattoos, universe, womb

I will drink nine cups of coffee at nine;

I will plant nine acorns in nine holes
           on nine hills;

I will serve nine platters of nine cupcakes
          with nine candles;

I will send nine letters to nine editors
          on nine serious subjects;

I will tell nine friends nine secrets
          in nine languages;

I will feed nine sardines to nine cats
          with nine lives;

I will follow the nine commandments
          of the god of 729 names;

I will pleasure my ninth lover nine times
          at her nine erogenous zones;

I will compose nine songs of celebration
          for the eight planets

and Pluto, the cartoon dog.

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Michigan Upper Peninsula

July 26, 2009 at 4:14 pm · Filed under U.P., Upper Peninsula, car, coffee, poem, poetry

Through fog and summer rain
you’d swear you were in Canada,
eastern Ontario or New Brunswick,
when you drive across the U.P.,
lakes and bogs and more trees
than people, spruce and popple,
maple and pine, watching for
cop cars, RVs, log trucks, moose,
listening to Niko Case,
high on coffee and Big Red gum,
chewing on your little troubles
stick by stick.

With the construction
it’ll take all afternoon
to get to the Bridge
then maybe Flint by sundown.
There’s an old man
stopped on the left shoulder
looking over his car and then
ahead on the right I see the deer
struck down dragging herself
like Christina prone and twisted
in that famous Weyth painting.
It’s too late to stop
and what could I do anyway?

Last night we found
the little black chick
who hatched last week, dying,
its guts spilt out.
You need to go, I said,
I’ll take care of this.
Smooth rock heavy
in my palm, one swift
bash, twitching, peace.

Hemmingway fished these streams,
Jim Harrison and Greg Brown too.
They say still waters run deep,
but some things
you push them down
and they just stir the muck
and bob to the surface.
Now the miles roll fast
under your wheels like years,
and slip away easier than
visions of old lovers.
I wish Dad, two years gone,
could sit here beside me.

Lightening!
Count the heart beats,
brace for the crash.

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“Number 13″ new poem very rough draft

June 8, 2009 at 2:25 pm · Filed under breakfast, coffee, love, lust, naked, poem, poetry, sex, sexual, sun

Hard to sleep last night after long bike ride, jotted this down:

 

Number 13

 

The bright morning light

shone through the thin mountain air

flooded the downstairs bedroom

with the warm glow

of pure young love.

Tracing the inside of your arm

slowly at the pace of morning

from wrist to elbow

bicep to armpit

the curve of your breast

ribs and soft belly and hip

across the tops of your thighs

a pleasure you could not resist.

After

ravenous for the Number 13

breakfast at the Soda Springs Café

eggs on potatoes

with cheese and green onions

and a splash of salsa

and hot coffee for me.

We don’t make love any more.

I rarely eat breakfast.

Midwest mornings are dull and damp.

The torch you carried for me

has gone cold but now I see

it wasn’t a light in the dark

because we glowed

in perpetual sun.

Now I am the dark.

I need your torch to lead me back

but I have sucked all the air

out of our world

and choked the flame.

I am black like an oil slick

spreading over the sparkling sea

coating your feathers with tar.

Now I depend on coffee

but the taste is bitter

the effect muted

dulled by

a chronic fatigue of the soul.

I miss holding your warm body

I miss lingering over breakfast together

but more like nostalgia for a favorite book

not like body hunger.

And of course

the light

I miss the light.

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