Waffle Shop Thoughts
2 eggs over easy
with home fries, toast and coffee
Nocturnal breakfast at 12:40 a.m.
2 men talking about engines
and horsepower with background
gurgling cigarette laughter
Just coffee for me and my
slim economic worth:
A buck and change
a clunky old Chevy
a half-pack of smokes
and a Zippo lighter
this pen and a rucksack
full of little symbolic tokens
of my life
The young boy behind the counter
stands, arms folded
sucking his cheeks
behind his full pink lips
Another cup, please...
do I get a free refill?
My boots dent asphalt
and the motion makes
the gears churn the thoughts
around my brain.
My skull is just a cage
and my mind would be a lion
This is stimulant breakfast
for the farmers of darkness
The ones who hit their peak
an hour before dawn
the ones who howl like jackals
through wine burgundy stained guts.
The moon makes no photosynthesis
for me, but the stars wink diamonds
billions of light-years away where
there is daylight.
The tribe may sleep
but will never die.
Apple pie a la mode and coffee...
delicious and nutritious, says Jack.
We stopped to dig, says Jack.
John Brinker is haiku in animation.
I stop to let the thought swim
inside its aquarium
and to light a cigarette
and Noelia floats by like an angelfish.
She's the one my poems are for.
She's the one I need.
I should find her feet and kiss them
with tears then
find my way to say
I'm sorry
I love you the best
my heart is cracked
like a broken watch crystal
I never meant to hurt you...
An old woman stares at me
behind cigarette smoke
and weary cartoon eyes
and I fantasize she could be her
or even any woman to come along
to save me from my sorrow.
She could be young
and cool
and a painter or a poet
she could know how I work
and maybe I could love her
because she understands.
She just might woo me
with a cruising southern drawl
might turn me on
like a prophet
like a panther
like libido
like a dancer.
My coffee is drained
and I look into her eyes again
All I see is hag
like she was born old
like the wrinkles have always been there.
Everyone in this joint is old
No light shines in their eyes
but for a dim tired
fluorescent bulb
This world gets me down
like a ghetto
but above the grungy concrete
and the riot boys and
the flashing cop cars
and neon signs
telling them to intoxicate
and never face your fears...
there is graffiti
Technicolor in a black and grey
permanent photograph
and there is music in their hearts
and on the stereo
and still they find their way to smile.
I think I'll just sit back and smoke for a while.
Jason I. Stutz