I'm not a poet

Poems from The Brew


walking slowly to
the beat of happy cops casually
discussing radio hardware hierarchies
while eyeing a slinking perp, deluded and
paranoid, tripping exhaustedly on the curb
recovering quickly gasping
studderstep softly and walk into the night

the air is clean
it's too early, or too late for jimi.
if thats how you spell it anyway

abercrombie babies, beautifully sweetly smelling
fantasia of bookbags slung so carefully at
a casual angle, softly ripped and worn jeans and
shoes, beating happily to their own imaginative
Dave Matthews versions, beating quiet rhythms
of knee kicking guitar and bass and drums, flutes
for voices and bottled beaches for hair and sheep.
Smiling about, glancing for someone to
sit with, piercing souls and egos coolly, with sweet sweet
melodic steps past, until shes finally rested,
at the table of wool and wolf hair, narrowly
skipping my latte with a kiss Oh! how they
love Bob Dylan, especially the ones he doesn't play.
But neither do I. I must be shallow. Sipping caramel and
chocolate and expresso and thinking naked sweatiness
The girl behind the counter with the large smile and
cute sandals and honest eyes stares, my eyes must
be red. And she must be mysterious. the brunette in
the center of the room intrigues me, not because of her
breasts but because of the variety of her facial
expressions, but breasts help.




_____________________________________
I TOOK THE PIECES YOU
THREW AWAY AND PUT THEM
TO GATHER BY NIGHT AND DAY
WASHED BY RAIN, DRIED BY SUN,
A MILLION PIECES ALL IN ONE
_____________________________________


slick and standing
A testament to frame and physics
pert and unmovable
loving smiling waiting
(g)leaning oh so slightly
untouched by music or coffee