Chaos in coffee

Pot-boilers and romantic mysteries begin with the clairvoyant siren
passing through the swinging doors of a no-goodnik hole-in-the-wall
and setting a chain of events that culminate in the flying of a low-altitude plane over the plains of Africa.
This, however, is about Chaos. In a Coffee shop.

The slow-motion server with the smile frozen mutating as the splash of an open-faced cup o' Joe
sings through the air in driblets of brown steam
an M. C. Escher painting of fractal caffeine,
and the other server, well she's mid-joke papering the walls with the sounds of socially-induced mirth and good cheer,
and the patrons? Well, they just got free scones as the sugar granulates off their faces,
and the coffee shop has its precious little writer
on a Mac in a corner eyeing the girl clientele in sly joy
and tapping away at his ever-so-creative writing about writing about writing...
an ad infinitum ad nauseum prognostication of events never to come.
But he wills that the large glass window behind him
ensconcing this wooden home of sticky hot cocoas and intellectual brownies
would shatter of a sudden, as the coffee splashes, as the sugar granulated falls
and two arms of a middle-aged woman angry and all-encompassing
break through to make a grab at his neck,
in the hope of this chaos amidst the presence of chaos which is created by the writing of this
he loses track of a thread of thought and must grab at the tray of straws that have fallen over
as a result of the people leaping in haste to offer a helping hand.
I marvel at their willingness to be human in their own sort of way while in my own sort of way
I still wonder if writing this can will things into existence.

Apleasing Question

alkjg72://

slogging through the shadows
we beget one who flees his receding hairlip
in a time of safe wonder
in a time of tragedy
this perverted fireman
does only what he wants to do
cries for no one
and returns things freshly purchased

do you perchance have a laptop for this child?
she waffled in a coarse manner of speaking
along the shores of frozen tides
wiping ships askew toward chains, whips, and catapults
these are the tools of a bastardized era
of bags crinkling with no one touching
but everyone tuning in to experience the outcome
of whatever large number of configurations
one could find themself within shimmying

slimy dog mouth
a trident of sea men
all things are correlated
in a wise package of leisure

shy eyeliner
the one who approaches
should have taken pause
or at least some self defense classes

a sash lain on the dresser drawer
a fresh bit clinging to the sides
a mashed shit in running shoe grooves
a tossed salad still undressed has no croutons

i wander through a lusty landscape
memorizing faces or at least forgetting
a depth too penetrating to allow the stuck zippers
to behave like their bullet born brethren

might i have one style
to call my own
before the code
changes my opinion?

Mines is a mind that fears
that he's one them who disappears,
one of those walking talking ghosts
that's there then not heres.
The one that boasts
no claim to glitz-banging fame
but for the mosts
is dusted under the rug
of social-undercurrent tug
and lands, crashes
under the banyan tree in the sun.
there where memory doesn't travel,
standing on the grit and well-worn gravel
where the other wraiths roam ravenously
seeking your attention. And yours as well.

The homeless' eyes are not met.
The mentally ill are shirked and shrugged and danced away
as if neon had the power to zap you to the reality of your choice,
and away from theirs.
Their stories are told only
within the context of NBC's schmaltz factory.
The smells of faeces and laborious sweat,
the panting of the adrift obese, sweating under the larger weight of derision,
the immigrant stereotype show in pantomime. A joke that's funny because it's well meaning
in your suburban homes on Tuesday nights.
I don't know when the beetle of anger crawled up inside mine herrfungstrung
but its thrashing about like it wants me turn around and look at the shadowed figure who hungrily eyes my lot
who thirsts for the privileges I have
who would take better care of their sisters and brothers.
I have failed in my own idiom.
and so I fall by the wayside,
and join the shadows,
I dance in the moonlight when no one is around.