Once he had one he wanted to constrict it, like a boa; a python, to hold closely guarded the thing for which demure closets stay closed like iron-waitresses pervading the hostel with lime-light the lemony-snickett cackling in the born-and-bred flames, curling irons prod the paper-clip open but the stamp endures, a timid interred girl beghosts the earls. The favorite simple plan, favored in heavens gamma, where brightness surely waits in pavilion the concert. My concerto is made-man italian, the devise impregnated, like hollow bells that sour, the grim sugar from said waitress, we wildly call the crows to set and chime on the lines where workmen craft blue ribbons atop the farmland graves.
blues and spirits downtown
away from campus
books closed until Sunday
another chapter of my life
I played
instructors and professors
couldn’t see me
mingling with townsfolks
and flirting with waitresses
the music
book learning taken to heart
psychology and sociology
but in time I discovered
life’s lessons off-campus
became a part of me
alone in a dim apartment
with headphones on
I listened to ballads
and closed my eyes
*braided haibun form
(a morning walk in senryus)
My home’s not two miles
from school, on beautiful fall
days I’ve been walking.
There’s one building, wrapped
in silver scaffolding, where
youngish male workers,
in luminous trade
gear, offer bleacher-level
fashion opinions.
We passersby love
the crumbs of mild discomfort
and edgy style takes.
Although I wasn’t
exactly dressed to impress,
they liked today’s dress
.
.
Songs for this:
Private Eyes - The bird and the bee
One Two Three - Hooverphonic
I Know What Boys Like - The Waitresses
A Little Train
Train, the train of my home, home of my heart, childhood, past
Past, yes, but lives. Hmm, yes, so good to travel here, and live
Live this air, this life, this feeling, this atmosphere, loved desire
I will come back again, I want to greet everybody here again
The people, the conductors and conductresses, and the neighbours
Shop assistants, waitresses, shops, pubs, and all the stations
All the roads, ways, trees, everything. Good to live in my living heart
This is the best feeling in this superb mind; this is not part of a country.
A country that is everything. Only one. Here is my mini farm. Live here
Live here, a secret mind. He has passed away, but he is always calling
Calling his memory my literature teacher, the grand soul of this land
Good to remember him, master of literature, hmm, why has he gone?
Little train, little train
Train of tales
From past
Help to live
Again
The
Lost
Friends
And past
How I met Josie
I met Josie at the Black Cow
a watering hole for singles
pair of jade Green Earrings
adorned her ears
and drew my eye
we talked about our pasts
spent time Reelin’ In the Years
found out she had gone to Bard College
which was My Old School and
we enjoyed a Time Out of Mind
we watched the Baylon Sisters
sing Pretzel Logic, when they were done
the crowd shouted Do It Again
all waitresses were assigned a number, ours was nineteen
whenever we needed more drinks we yelled
Hey Nineteen!
she avoids crowds
too many feelings
chaos and dissention
She does better with positivity
Negativity takes her strength
Zaps her energy
Throws her into a terrified state
She does not frequent stadiums, carnivals or festivals
Waitresses stay and talk
Telling her their life stories
As her annoyed family shoots mean looks
Which the waitress usually does not notice
Strangers on the street love her attention
She tries to not make eye contact
Some follow her home
It is rare to find an empath and everyone wants one
There is no need to apologize for the things you mistakenly forget to do
What type of person would I be to make a mockery of patience and virtue?
You did right with direct condolences, which most would seldom bother to do
A smile means more than a fork and spoon; the steak needed the rest in my humblest of view
Feelings of appreciation are my hope for the rest of your evening after reading this; my gratitude is for all that you do
Let the laborers rest,
like poetry, the rhyme is in their job,
as they hammer the nails,
and man the railroads,
maids clean someone else's toilets,
others fell giant trees,
as the waitresses twirl like a ballerina
balancing plates amid the din of a
crowded diner,
migrant farmworkers bend in the
savage sun's glare to pick the produce.
Let the laborers rest,
their aching bodies in sleep's bliss,
like poetry, the rhyme is in their job,
it pumps their hearts and blood,
the rhythm of the workers of the world.
A fellow laborer of my brother,
was dying of lung cancer,
he toiled up to four days before he died.
God let this laborer rest,
and He closed His servant's eyes. ~
he entered the room as if rice was about to boil over,
seeing faces of those he didn't recognise look as though
they were reading the last line of a book they never read
before, staggered, asymmetrically pensive in times during
coffee servings and bites from donuts, but, given that it
was only midday, the flavour of the waitresses grumbled
in overlapping office lunch hours. little did our hero, who
entered with arched cat-back whiteness, know, his un-
expected audience, delivering blank verse in motor-
cycle and side-car loads, were systematically only there
to make up the numbers, merely propping up the inward
burst of off the street heart attacks, the last hope of ever
thwarted reasoning and too the waitresses were cardboard.
I'd like to step back in time a bit
And mention the dinosaur.
He lived two hundred million years
And then was seen no more.
The dino's demise is a mystery
That's hashed and often rehashed here.
One fav'rite hypothesis seems to be
That a giant asteroid crashed here.
Argued by clerics, and scientists,
And other great men of distinction,
Some clearly deluded,
Yet none has concluded
What actually caused the extinction.
What really occurred
Lies somewhere obscured
Amongst all those theories and guesses.
Some still do remain, though,
Like the crane and komodo,
And a number of interstate truck-stop waitresses.
I am a listener
My eyes say “tell me”
And people do
Waitresses ask me to scoot over
I have never seen them before
They tell me their life story
Strangers and I converse
in grocery stores, on airplanes, at funerals and weddings
I listen with my heart
And I do not offer advice
I merely listen
It is enough
I often hug a new “person’ goodbye
And they cling to me
I am their listener for the day
And it makes a difference
Hang a left, clunker rocking
on sprung shocks.
Inside,
narrows taper to booths.
The place is slow-time empty.
The staff talk is griddle speech,
a blow by blow banter,
middle finger smarts mixed with
vowels of regrets.
From the lips of waitresses
the clipped history
of shaky affairs
and dead-loss dudes.
False gods named,
Tod, Ricky, and Wayne
a bruised chatter -
ankle-swelling narrations
that break apart unfulfilled.
Food arrives with a woman,
dimples nap in work-weary cheeks.
Her necklace is ink,
yet it hangs over glancing eyes
as a low-cut caress.
She knows I’ve been listening,
yet continues unabashed
a colloquy with my senses.
reciting by rote a silent
'tip-me-big' love spell.
I was not the party, but I was the listener at the party
Steady streams of people sat to tell their stories
Not only at parties, but on street corners and buses.
I was a pied piper, drawing them in.
It was not my initial plan, but it happened.
Waitresses told me to scoot over.
They sat in our booth and told me all about it.
It used to drive my husband and children nuts.
I was not aiming to become a pied piper.
It happened gradually; animals sought me out also.
Not only dogs, cats and birds, but raccoons and opossums.
I have those hazel eyes that say “I care”.
I don’t mean to lure everything to me,
But they gravitate to me and tell me their stories.
I wait until they leave to write them down
Into poems and songs.
Time and chance happened
to me
Opportunity came knocking
Canadian visa on my green passport
grabbed with both arms
Montreal, Ottawa here
I come
KLM, Air France, Amsterdam, Montreal
cities so surreal
Dreams and imagination becoming
so real
Waiters and waitresses
wait on me
Dreamy and misty but so real
Race and colour irrelevant
All wait on me
Living my dreams
Ottawa with love
Visa on my green Nigerian passport
The truth is that people think I am the best listener in the world.
I have mastered the face and the expressions of the most interested.
I can toss out the best impression of a person who cares.
I am doing it correctly, for waitresses sit down and tell me their story.
I scoot over for waiters, hairdressers and bartenders too.
A few well placed “hms”, “wows” and “oh, mys" make me fast friends.
Most are self-involved, care not if they learn anything about me.
They want my deeply empathetic hazel eyes to pull out their truths.
I am an actress, playing a role, giving them what they need.
Wondering why they are too selfish to ask me anything about me.
I am the world’s most notorious imposter of a listener.
Many times I am on autopilot, not hearing a word they say.
Sadly, they hug me goodbye and tell me how much it means to them.
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