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COFFEEHOUSE POEM #47
by Erren Geraud Kelly a girl sleep in a chair across from me as i write this earlier, she sat on a bench outside starbucks unremarkable, except for red hair which covered her face like a shroud she is proof, even the ordinary can become extraordinary she sits across from me giving herself to dreams as latin jazz plays on my headphones maybe i should pick her up and take her to seville we could share a table at a sidewalk cafe i would toast her as a jazz band plays in the background whenever she wakes up her face will be like the mona lisa and her expression will be another dream given to the day |
SKY BOOTS by Rosario Romero |
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THE LAPTOP
by Jen DeGregorio He doesn't hold me the way I'd like to be held. He lays me on hard surfaces — my back grows sore — or on his lap which is warmer than the coffee table, agreed, but no better. He looks at me, yes, but won't see me. Sometimes I refuse to cooperate, give him a little hour glass instead of the webpage of his desire. That's when he hurts me, jabs one of my keys until I spill all over the page j after j after jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj— I think he loves me. How else could it be I so vex him? And it's true that he needs me, prefers to ask me than to go to the door for the weather. |
RUBY RED by Rosario Romero |
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GLASSES
by P.M.F. Johnson Not the Great Wall as from space nor the latest doom plume of industrial epoxy toxin weltering downwind in a trashy mash-up of spectacular guilt and the urban uber-scent ... no, from here I see mostly the narrow strip of sidewalk this tavern has swelled out across by paying some bureaucratic hand a sly sum to stick chairs and gabble tables insistently in the way of walking types, invite the seatless in for a few while-here beers and quick liquors. I eye a few ocularly unsteady light poles. Even with this daguerreotype darkness folding in, I also see you with that rakish tilt of the hat glinting delights back from the other side of these distorting glasses. |
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