In a penguin on the television set apartment,
with no water in my chalice,
home of the grandaughter
of mad bomber physicist
Wolfgang Kurt Hermann "Pief" Panofsky,
who was made famous for the eons
in a Monty Python skit,
I made sure the windows
were all wide open for the cooling
and ran out of the house, trembling,
God forbid the warming, should we
ever break bread with reclaiming
witches living off our free bread
They insisted they could save me;
They were beautiful in their own zonked ways,
and then, the saving being done,
called me the devil, the devil,
the devil, three times,
before they were One ...
And compassion is a virtue
sold out in short supply,
borrowed again for what Ryan Adams
might call the "rescue blues,"
when they pay you up front
and lecture you the rest of your days
with their vitriol and their dim views
And there you were, with my backlit
ghost behind the suffused
dark arts Baphomet computer,
the difference between innocence
and knowledge being sub-atomic,
it’s positively Platonic,
allegorical, hysterical ...
when you ask for a cigarette
since it’s my personal policy
to only give out one cancer stick
per hour to the hopeless ...
(I mean homeless) ... and if they
claim to have hope I give them three:
That’s how smoke-free hopelessness can be.
So it’s back to my parking lot for words,
worlds within worlds,
a bridge too far from the gypsy cafes
as Napoleon, fresh face-i-fied,
sleepwalks into Starbucks to be reborn
and his iconic cup
of Gaian corporate glee,
which may be good news,
just maybe ... since I saw
a kachina in my dreams,
then his shirt logo of the same
damn military echelon of wings,
eagle spread, winking
He, a soldier sure, retired, moneyed,
yes, a super serene Baby Bomber ...
A crier of you know what ...
Fear for sale. Fear, the slut.
Say can’t you hear their bird's eye cries,
they are, bling-winged bat men who sigh,
repacking themselves, after landing,
in their imperial cruiser esuvees:
I saw a documentary
on their disappearing, once.
But they will live free to die to free me
to be free, an uneven trade,
the polarity of it, so absurd
I guess I need them more than they need me.
Then one more comes in,
a walking zombie cell phone call
after parking a black hawk
Land Rover, gee ...
she has camo flag pants in tune
to those photos on the big electronic
BBS .. SBB...Bss...BS...Bs...BS...
I would walk down Colfax
all the way to downtown Denver
just to run away to see those neon bells
with a crazy dame like her,
to see the red lines speeding by
of Iranian missile launches
all doctored up to be seen
on this stolen property, this land
for you and me ...
Hey man,
what’s the plan
what was that you sai-i-i-d
sun tan, burning man,
lying there in bed?
You who tried to socialize
but couldn’t seem to find
what just what, Jethro,
you were looking fer,
that sumpin’
on your mind ...
Piped-in classic rock:
The very ether of the Rockies
But a big heron circles
over Starbucks, wide white
sailing, neither failing
nor flailing
with black-tipped wings
... and just as strangely
I almost missed, the ponytailed
programmer in a Prius
as a potential friend
to send this give up, this smoke,
this one-per-hour cigarette of hope
to a guy wearing a turqoise bracelet:
Hey! Hey! ... Hay?
How much faith do you have today?
I just got a medal in my dream:
A Thunderbird re-e-e-e-ward,
and another laugh, a smile,
from a strong blueish blonde blondee
bird driving a white trash from Truckee Ford
So good, this little gettaway:
Love this parking lot
almost as much
as I love
having the last word.
~ Written while observing a Starbucks parking lot in Aurora, Colorado
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