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Everyone does this sometime.
Everyone like me
Sits in the hippest cafe
And leans over his notepad,
Believing inspiration will come
To choke poetry from the glistening
Channel of creation
In his twitching pen hand.
The coffee is good,
But that is not important.
If it were a bitter brew,
I would pretend not to object,
In case someone is looking.
Is that mocha too hip for you?
I can handle it.
I mean it's fine.
I don't dare look around,
Raise my eyes to meet
What might be other eyes,
What might be the harsh scrutiny
Of youthful self-assurance,
Pierced lips chuckling into the chai.
I just lean over my notepad,
Silver pen twitching in my hand
And listen to the invisible clicking
Of the amplifiers;
Music I wouldn't listen to elsewhere,
But that's how good it is.
I came here believing
The channel was blocked,
Afraid to uncap my pen knowing
Nothing would happen next.
But I wonder if there are eyes
On my table, on this shimmering quill,
The eyes of a young hopeful,
Who came here to uncap his pen
And see what wisdom his moleskine
Would soak up from the core,
Only to watch the ink dry on the nib;
Wordless bedroom poets
Looking on and thinking,
I wish I had that,
That flow.
The coffee is good,
Not that it matters.


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There's another part, always,
that doesn't want to go,
a shape more practiced
than my humble sincerities,
my tilted resolutions.

I forget to relax my knees,
That I should soften my jaw,
take lessons from the glass,
from the sidelong blurs,
and oblong silhouettes;

take in the everyday words
That clatter around my body.
I should brush against these threads,
learn their girth and texture.

This is how they move,
in great thrusts, driven
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This is how they talk,
in echos and gasps,
looking right at you.