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Monday Night At The Bookends Cafe.

Updated on March 15, 2011

Monday Night at the Bookends cafe.




Caffiene steam curls

into ribbons of addiction

gift-wrapping my head.

papers rattle like the

bones of the war dead

settling somewhere

in the middle of east.

Even now boys die,

as I munch on cinnamon pastry

awaiting my turn to vent.

My thoughts turn to a location

just past the rich white phallus

of the Washington monument,

where our former

Commander-In Grief scuttled

through the oval orifices,

like a cockroach

feeding on the lame duck

of the time he had left.

His trickle down economy

was merely piss on

the bent backs

of the working class.

I rise amidst the latte

sucking sponge heads

squatting on a jigsaw

of chairs around me,

and pour my soul in

their unstirred hearts

the cream of my

dreams unrealized.

Some nod,

some nod off,

others gaze,

with three mile stares

back to where we fought,

those twisted jungles steaming

in the cauldron of hell,

feces fermenting

on pun-gee stakes,

and tiny Vietnam babies set

on pressure mines,

bawling for comfort,

but then obliterating

those who bent to help.

My country is a yo-yo,

we fall to the

end of our rope,

spinning into

the useless revolutions of war,

and then rise,

staggering close to prosperity,

only to be flung back

down on the whim

of a leader

stringing us along...

tied to the center of his madness.

A spattering of applause

alerts me that my rage is spent.

Broken I collapse on a cane back chair,

crippled by indifference,

as the next poet gives voice to despair.


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