the air is smoke and ashen
in the dread dim coffeeshops of america.
take rest from your wild nights' travels,
slake your crazed desert thirst.
lo! baby, lo,
the bitter blood runs black,
the premium beans percolate,
don't be late, don't wait.
outside, the winds blow, blow, blow. lo, the darkness, the darkness, the cold freezes the heart, the sacred heart, the venerated heart of our Savior "Jesus, it's cold," say the brittle broken bums of the world, "Can you spare a dime?" but there will always be poor. and it is best to render unto Caesar as you would have him render unto you. lo, the Golden Rule, the Golden Rule. the winds, the winds, the winds blow, outside.
have a long lungful of choke-grey smoke.
your tea grows cold in the pot.
lo, hot momma,
why must you stare, so sad and long,
[neo-faux-beatnik, ca. 1995]