Handsome boys with black,
whispered hair all their
shirtless swagger & mercury
charms no match for Marlon
Brando in every cube, or
Birdland’s dissonant promise,
blooming chords and Spanish
poets in your cold and formal notes…
O! and you in your tragic
Lolitadom, all gothic perfection
with your card tricks and
hand games, all minty smiles,
like madman ventriloquists
for kicks and kudos and cool.
but I want to see the player, not the game.
And I’m knocking here on Dead
John Wood, with a map of miles
As the bird flies, dizzy like a nailhead
Buick, sad eyed, I’m Sinatra, I
just blew it cool, shooting the breeze
and a lousy cup of coffee
is all I ask.
I’m not some swooning Romeo
Not some long lost poet on a pawnshop radio
I’m not asking you to stake a claim
I’m not asking you to tattoo my name
on your arm…
A lousy cup of coffee in some bookstore café.
A lousy cup of coffee’s all I ask.