2012

One day we will go
to Pancakes House,
where the pancakes are warm and fluffy,
and the syrup
is quite sticky.
I'll sit on the cracked vinyl bench,
and you, across from me,
can spill the syrup
on the already sticky table.
That poor, poor waitress
with a beehive haircut
and a name of "Flo"
will clean up your mess
while recalling her youth, and
mumbling "those crazy kids."
And one day, our youth
will slip by, but l'll still be
eating those warm,
fluffy pancakes, and you'll

He is at the coffee shop.
Waiting for her to arrive.
He sips on the drink.
It's a warm, creamy beige.
It tastes better than anything,
Especially on a cold afternoon.
She walks through the door.
Bringing a cold breeze in.
He shivers from the chill.
How could she possibly know?
Know that she makes his teeth chatter?
She sits in the chair. She didn't even order coffee.
"I really hate these places."
"But why?" he asks her.
"Everyone is just so snobby."
'Tm not snobby," he says.

Old woman so pale with face gaunt
Stands amongst the grey of the morn,
Bound by spell; a beautiful haunt.

The passage of death does not daunt
Colorful-wisdom; knowledge-borne,
Old woman so pale with face gaunt.

To be free is all we could want
Although life is more than forlorn,
Bound by spell; a beautiful haunt.

Death is just a lighthearted jaunt
On a wooded path with many thorns,
Old woman so pale with face gaunt.

Melodic waves of sound flow dynamically from the circular mouths of the Casio WK-1630. Deep, bassy vibrations are beating rhythmically on the walls of the sparsely lit make-shift studio that doubles as a bed­room. Bumpathurnp, bump bump bumpathump, Pow- The drum track is insistent and beguiling.

sit softly in a country cornfield
and swiftly smudge graphite
on a page of paper while the

corn stalks stalk the edges
of the eyes and subtle sun strikes
the skin with strokes, so

listen to the light listlessly and
let the kaleidoscope glasses
don the extra eyes of the mind

"Sure there aren't any in the back?"

The man Mom asks is bald on his head and full of hair everywhere else. He does not look the type she would normally ask for assistance. But here, in Greenland Market, no one looks the type. He reaches for the garbanzo bean boxes and begins to unload them. His sweaty hands leave imprints on the can tops. Mom and I meet eyes; we both know the other is disgusted. Still we wait. Without looking up, he scratches his neck and speaks. "The truck comes in tomorrow."