Two Poems - For A Sunday Afternoon
1) The Sun, and Coffee at Starbucks The sun has no door today-but it's looking for one; its face is in the window-slightly, it has white bright knuckles this afternoon- It drags its Sunday rays along the profile of my face.
The trees outside, from where I sit, across from me through the window, are porky-pine green, and beyond those, are peach colored balconies.
I'm at 'Starbucks,' Benavides: the walls have long stretched out pictures, of a weird coffee pot, tables, circles, coffee cups, and musical things, things like horns and notes, and so forth...
! My latte is strong, I like it like that, and I sip on it, while reading: Shelley, Dylan Thomas, and Plath.
There are no clouds today in Lima, just mist from the ocean, mixed into the atmosphere, a lazy lazy mist at that; a stiff and thick kind of mist, like soup-with slow moving feet, for I can see patches of blue beyond it, and the sun, the sun I so love seeping through a porthole or two, still looking for that door.
#2362 4-27-2008 2) Intrusion (Poetic Prose, and Confessional Poetry) When I was a young man, I was likened to terrified fish, an alcoholic that is what I was back then, not how I wanted to be.
It is forty-years now.
I know now I was better off with no father, thus, I had to row my way to where I am today, through a generation of vipers.
Mother was always fearful I'd become nothing more than driftwood, but thick salt kept me up, and I didn't know (floating just above my neck).
My mother and brother were happy (perhaps the only ones) when I somehow slipped through the keyhole and finally opened the shut door and joined the opposite continents.
A late bloomer you might say.
#2363 (4-27-2008)
The trees outside, from where I sit, across from me through the window, are porky-pine green, and beyond those, are peach colored balconies.
I'm at 'Starbucks,' Benavides: the walls have long stretched out pictures, of a weird coffee pot, tables, circles, coffee cups, and musical things, things like horns and notes, and so forth...
! My latte is strong, I like it like that, and I sip on it, while reading: Shelley, Dylan Thomas, and Plath.
There are no clouds today in Lima, just mist from the ocean, mixed into the atmosphere, a lazy lazy mist at that; a stiff and thick kind of mist, like soup-with slow moving feet, for I can see patches of blue beyond it, and the sun, the sun I so love seeping through a porthole or two, still looking for that door.
#2362 4-27-2008 2) Intrusion (Poetic Prose, and Confessional Poetry) When I was a young man, I was likened to terrified fish, an alcoholic that is what I was back then, not how I wanted to be.
It is forty-years now.
I know now I was better off with no father, thus, I had to row my way to where I am today, through a generation of vipers.
Mother was always fearful I'd become nothing more than driftwood, but thick salt kept me up, and I didn't know (floating just above my neck).
My mother and brother were happy (perhaps the only ones) when I somehow slipped through the keyhole and finally opened the shut door and joined the opposite continents.
A late bloomer you might say.
#2363 (4-27-2008)
