PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Cold Brew

I walk the street embracing the seasons changing pinching cold and sweating First Fridays and artistic graffiti that makes the coffee more expensive, the gentrified sterility of urban renewal.

Guilty heat that doesn't feel guilty

Flirting in math class

Did we ever learn about the

His stare lingers, it's direct

He smiles and stares

Chipping paint flaking tearing thick dried pieces saturated in pigment exposing brick

exposing silver tipped incandescent bulbs and hanging brass socket chandeliers

warming warm wool worn wood wooed and tapered maps nailed to paneling

It's a happy moment, it feels innocent and potential. I linger and smile. It never boils it never leaves whispers. He's funny and interesting. He doesn't have any social media and he's quiet. Is that who I'm drawn to. I love the dreamers until they talk. I worry I sound as stupid. Reading their prose, watching their films, Hearing their politics. I like their company.

smelling of booze and espresso; leather and clean dust

I capture the moments aimlessly directional and searching for a packaged infinity, the butter reply of a gritty espresso, spiraling encapsulating daunting the question of a morning, Ricky Ian Gordon. rule over sin.

I'm not sure I met him

I've heard about him though

And seen him online, the grid, a face

I wanted to message him

I'm sure he's heard about me too

An inside breeze and the warmth of a drunken crowd lead me upstairs and the lounge and the tables and the porch and the lot. The posters read powdery cracks in the card stock veins and creases pouting.

He looks like he has a vision, and then he talks. I expect more and he obviously sees more in his work then whats there. The lens flares are beautiful, and then he talks. I want to watch muted. Deafened by the colors and the music. Why are strings so beautiful and why do lens flares  and open chords on top of open chords and open car windows on open little long roads feel like an achievement.

18th & Charlotte West 39th East Lockwood University Avenue

I've already written poems for you

and moved on

You don't look at me or talk to me

It's embarrassing

If anything I wanted to be your friend

Or know you as a friend

I'll miss the nights, glass walls and Kansas City skylines, the dream of it all leaving art for love and love of art for small cities and colleges towns and debt for settling and rejection for the next 4 years.

I listen to you and you sound right. It's not misplaced and its not fake novelty. I listen to you. You're quiet too. You all have something to say and analyze how to present the listless life of suburban bohemia. I maybe said a hundred words to you, and you said ten.

A ball and a cape, fans fan modesty fan ego fan half a million,

Box seating on a makeshift stage and acting courting whispers the last blow filtered seething and tumultuous reeling safe from debt.

The kisses engage

My lips on your lips

My hands in you hair down your cheek,

Your mouth feels like home

I kiss your eyes and they're softly burning

I kiss each one, separately

I am a victim of introspection. I shut my eyes and the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again. But life is long and its the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.

Sylvia Plath

I accept.  I commit.   I wait.