close-legged in the James Center Starbucks i

channel my inner alchemist writing

molecules into dreams

and posing painfully

as another drip in the puddle

of humankind, my best sad delusions

melting into visible air breathed

over a single blade of grass

crowned with a frozen halo,


yearning or a universe trapped

there in the mud beside a stream

that flows where herons stalk

lost summer and only the

indigent and the inspired

tread the river-paths. The truth is i

love this place not two skips

from hell’s half-acre but

sometimes, lost in the ebb and curve

between railroad tracks and

monogrammed yesterdays i

wonder if the whisper

of the Devil can still be heard

above the hum of the wi-fi;

if those who sojourn in the

Burnt District of this

numbed century still

feel its scars and its sunderings


some things it seems haven’t

changed at all: men

are still shaped

by the subjects they should have learned

in grammar school and poets

still prefer windows and the

real truth of it is, i guess,

that here where the trains slow

and the James flows on uncomplaining,

herons have always stalked

lost summers, and ice,

like mankind’s worst

delusions, will always


one sad drop

at a time.


10 thoughts on “

  1. Just amazing what sitting at Starbucks can inspire about 21st century life…
    Have no words to say how much I loved this and your poetry in general!
    Thanks for your comment in my blog


  2. i love how, in conclusion, you return to objects/subjects from the opening and wrap it all up with ‘the real truth is’, just as we’ve completely run out of breath – as an able alchemist / poetess will do.

    yes, someone has to prefer windows, i wholeheartedly agree;

    and also to ask why puddles prefer to reflect certain scenes after the rain stops; what it feels like to be securely interlocking cobblestones, several hundred years old – worn smooth and gray by countless footsteps, slips and slides and feet, too old or too young, shuffling; look at clouds as tough they are faces going through mood-swings and faces as though they are clouds whether in fall or spring projecting what’s within them at that moment as surreal yet fleeting shapes; what color a certain song begins with and why should emotion and color have anything to do with one another; imagine incidental friendships evolve roots and flower, otherwise wither if not tended, as roses bush might, when being hybridized; how certain feelings and memories can never be put into words and conversely why a single phrase, sometimes captures the imagination of a whole generation, even though it’s so simple; how time can be linear but oft times feel circular.

    surely someone is charged to do these sort of things as their primary role … no?

    ok, i vote that you do … *sly smile*


    • noxy, thanks for the vote, although you’ve described quite a responsibility there (beautifully, i might add.) if i should need a deputy, tho, i’m definitely gonna look first in your direction 😉

      and i’m not sure poets could even exist without windows, you know? something to see the world from…


  3. Pingback: sitting, two years later, | the tenth muse


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