Communicator, cooker, drinker, poet. Grew up in a mining town, wore a hard hat.

Friday, March 10, 2006

i've been accused of not updating and here's my reply

the people at the table next door are talking
about a hot cross bun mess of things
sticky sweet red jubejube union bites
electic green tidbits of provinical politics
digress to aboriginals for good measure
let sit and soak in domestic anything

someone said plato! someone said plato!
the men remind me of my father...
every man reminds me of my father
isn't that the case with you, friend?

if they were more attractive, those bakers
at the nearby table, they'd be having a different
conversation and there'd be sex on the horizon
dirty, drunken sex with some young thing
her black thong dangling from the corner
of a guilty chair like a casualty of war
or some teenager from a tough highscool
the smell of cheap perfume and ovulation
spread across the room like cream cheese
on a tim horton's bagel. hungry, boys?

the obese man likes to challenge his stick-man
company, the oily-faced girl stands too close to be
so adverserial in response and tucked away behind
the bar the more symmetrical of the three is attempting
an escape into a different conversation with the
broad-shouldered man next door who likes sports
and is a bit old but smells of old spice and cigars and
she seems to like that

the waitress is writing tuesday on the menu board
it's after midnight and she'd rather be home with her
cat who i'm sure is a black knight in his own right
but monday should be safe until last call if you ask
me, which you didn't and i apologize for offering

good night


all a girl needs is a drink, a good pen,
and maybe a cigarette

i have all three and my thesis comes apart
as quickly as it came together
i didn't expect it to last...

i am decided on more adjectives:
thick brown glass domestic bottles broken sharp wet
glistening slippery dangerous wonderfully blurred

and stale