Friday, August 21, 2009


I perch on a stool
In the corner
My leather jacket perfect
For a cool Seattle evening
My beret and my goatee
Establish my committment
My buddy on bongos to my left
And my scrawny girlfriend to my right
Wrapped around me to keep away
The surburban matrons who have come to hear
The new beatnik poet

They file in after the art film has
Raised their consciousness
And bored their husbands
Who just want a good martini
Instead of a tamarind
Or fourteen varieties of tea

I wrap myself around an espresso
As foreign to them
As marijuana
And perhaps as needed
The old fat greek who runs the house
Says a few words of introduction
Pops the lights
And I begin
Holding a blank page
For I know everything I will say
By heart

My paean to love
And unbridled sexual coupling
Elicits gasps
From the men
Because they're hoping
And from the women
Because they're feeling
Down deep inside
The knowledge
That it could be better

Scant months before
(For such is the timescale when you're seventeen)
A mature woman
At least thirty
Had snatched my virginity
Casually teaching me what passion
Was truly about
I never forgot her
Though I never knew her real name

I finish
And elicit a small applause
Which I am perfectly willing to take
To my heart.
They finish their drinks
And the tiny little pastries
While I drain my
Supercharged coffee
On the house
That was part of the deal
I kick over my Triumph
While they slip into their Country Squires
The men curious
And the women wet
Hoping that somehow
They will be understood


My thanks to @thepinkpoppet for a chat session in which she reminded me of this era in my life. Yes, I was really there. Then. I wouldn't have missed it for the world...

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I am touched and honored by your thanks to me. And I so wish I could have been there when you lived this. Your words are smooth, detailed and engaging and drew me into the scene as if I was sitting in the audience. I enjoyed this very much. Thank you Sir. thepinkpoppet