Drinks at the Last Cafe Part IV

Sam found a tin full of gas, surroundedDrinks at the Last Cafe, a dystopic poem
by skeletons with long fingered hands
Mad Max meets O. Henry
he grinned. We need a worthy receptacle.
It took hours until they found a sports car
low to the ground, fast he promised.

It roared to life cutting off every other
possible sound, she clutched the seat, the window
screaming like the demons from hell
She never moved this fast.

Sam yelled straight from his soul
They careened through the flat desert
in a more or less straight line.
Sound trailed behind them – 100 miles an hour

Took care of the next seven days, he grinned like a maniac.
Her heart was forever damaged
by all that speed. She just knew it.
Can we do it again?

Ketchup bottles red as the setting sun
Absorbing all the light
the old waitress served them ketchup and road kill
specialty of the house
The Last Café on Earth

I was in the meat freezer
I hate it in there.
So of course I was trapped for like
97 hours
All that cold meat
Her nametag read Fran
which was not her real name – just the name left

She fingered her tight neck
The pink scars growing up over her sharp chin.
Tell me again about the Mother God.

Careless children, the same children
Who cracked Pandora’s box
Unlocked blue beard’s last room
Inspired the flood
The angry god hunted and destroyed

But the Mother God patiently
gathered body parts flung across the Nile or
the whole universe
and reassembled those back into a better man
missing only an eye, back of a heel, sometimes a hand
she watches over us
The girl concluded.

The waitress sighed
Sam rolled his eyes

They grew bolder as the leaders lost
brothers, hands, teeth, brothers
no job was too awful, that was the legend right?
They quizzed the Drummer
Weren’t they the stuff of old legends?
Billy the Kid, Dillinger, the Okay Corral.
He didn’t have the heart or the balls
to describe the sacrifices legends require.

It was easier to find notebooks and pens
In the abandoned Union Station stores – than cans
Here, he tossed her a fruit pie
and Dr. Pepper because that was all that was left
eat this, you will live forever.
She clutched a new notebook to her chest.
Yes, she could live forever.

The wind turbine over the Last Stop Saloon
thrummed in the sky
Come, charge for free, called the owner
although there is little to say.

She offered a cupcake
Too fat, the girl automatically announced, recognizing the object
As a no in the magazines

Ah, the woman bit into the cupcake.
with relish.
Just so you know,
here. Along the edges of the world
we all eat dessert first.

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Our Town Tuesday

“Does anyone ever realize lifeOur Town Tuesday
while they live it…
every, every minute?”

What if we lived one day a week
Not looking for the meme –
Hump Day
TGIF

Not focused on its end
Getting through
Getting it over with
Finishing up
in favor
Of a better future
that more Special Day

Stay in this day – Our Town Tues.
(#OTT)
Please note:
The oatmeal – steel cut or not
The song on the playlist
The mustard between the winter vines
Unbroken shoelaces

Thank:
A place to go
A voice who answers
Electricity and hot water

Acknowledge the pennies
From the cashier
as if
It were your last sentence

Celebrate the ordinary
the sky held overhead by mysterious forces
The earth that this morning, remains still.
Air – Flush toilets – Delivered mail

Realize life
In this least important day
This Tuesday
Like a saint
Like a poet

It will be important enough.

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I Make Lots of Plans

Poem, I make lots of PlansYou know the theory: if you want something really badly, make other plans and it will appear. It’s like when you want the children to do A, but they refuse and do B. Ignore them, and work on A all by yourself, they will hustle right over (whitewashing a fence comes to mind).  So if you want to get pregnant, find that perfect job.  If you want to move, fall in love in situ.  Never fails.  Okay, once it failed. I made other plans in January and it’s April and nothing has happened.

Don’t listen to me.

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The Price of Knowledge

Poem, the Price of Knowledge

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Use Broken Poetry

Use Broken poetry

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I Thought there was Only Tomato

Poem by #CatharineBramkampwriter

I did!  I thought there was just one kind of Andy Warhol soup. Which just shows that a person can’t know everything about modern art or pop art.  I share my surprise with you.

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Those Slow Corduroy Afternoons

Those slow Corduroy afternoons

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We May Never Have Eternity

We have eternity Fabulous sewer cover courtesy of Bergen, Norway

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Morning

Poem: art always lies

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I have Folded My Sweaters

Poem about tidying up

Who could resist?  I did all the tidying up I could and stood in the clean house waiting for my whole life to change.  It has not.  You read it here first.

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