I don’t get it. I’m usually jazzed by now. One more sip of coffee. Maybe it’s a tolerance thing? I’ve got to write something today.
….She’s a pretty woman, but she’s zodiac vague Black jeans and a flower for a name....
I can’t keep this up. What kind of coffee shop is this? I don’t even know what to call this kind of music they’re playing. The last song was someone butchering Bob Dylan. Putting a synth where it don’t belong.
She’s a pretty woman, but sheShe's well traveled, been to The Hague Wandered through all of the cities of the plague...
One more sip of coffee… God help me. Maybe I should write something more practical. Does anyone even read poetry anymore? Poor Baudelaire. Poor Keats. Poor me. If I asked twenty people who Arthur Rimbaud was, how many would know? How many would pretend to know? How many would guess? “You mean that old baseball player?”
She’s a cool woman, her hair floats in the breeze She cares about nothing, after a tragedy she says “oh geez”
I saw a car accident today. I’ve never seen so many as I have in LA. Restless city. You can tell by the way they drive. It was a rear-end-incident. Nothing serious, no one got hurt.
It’s strange the thoughts that run through your head. At first I felt sympathy. Next I thought ‘damn, how lucky I didn’t get hit by anything, I’m in the lane right next to it watching it happen.”
Then I think “actually thank God it happened with me next to it and not behind it. Because I get to drive right past and everyone behind is going to have to wait and traffic will slow down even worse. This is how traffic is created, now no one can use that lane. They’re going to have to move those cars out of the way, call the police, do the insurance thing, etc.”
I realized these weren’t the kindest thoughts. But it’s what happened as it happened. And then I saw the driver’s face. The one who caused the accident. He looked stunned. Then he let out a sigh that I could feel through the glass. And I was right back at the start feeling sympathetic. That’s enough to ruin anyone’s month. Poor guy.
She’s the kind of girl to wear a rag on her head Skin like milk, her lips like bread
This coffee really sucks. I can’t think straight. No focus. I hear you can only actually focus for seven seconds. Then again, I’ve also heard twenty-five minutes. Who knows? I haven’t had even one second. My mind is wandering. I’ll write this poem if it kills me…
Wait… What the hell is this? I turned the cup…. D… Decaf…
“DECAF! What a waste!”
So, I overcompensate. I get the largest coffee there is. Extra shots of espresso. Plain black… Now I’m jazzed… One take Jake. Here’s the poem:
She Don’t Dig Me At All:
She's a pretty woman, but shes zodiac vague Tight black jeans and a flower for a name Bernini couldn't carve a better figure out of clay I like, I like her, I really like her style Coffee with cream, you should see her skin Evanescent glow, she's been with lots of men I want to tell her, I don't want to be friends I like, I like her, I really like her style She's well traveled, she's been to The Hague She's walked through all the cities of the plague She came out unscarred and unscathed I like, I like her, I really like her style Even her smile blows a kiss I reach to catch it, in my fist She shewed me away with a flick of her wrist I like, I like her, I really like her a lot But she loves me... She loves me not
Reading this in South Africa , but transported to the smoggy heat of the LA freeway.