Member Poem

I am the only customer, in this shabby coffee shop, greasy unwiped tables, wreathes of sticky rings all over, signatures of vagabonds past, the bitter smell of burnt coffee, the rickety table -
All humming like a homeless inebriate, drowning his despair in self-prescribed oblivion, passers-by piss on his possessions, stray cats purr at his jokes

The coffee-man at the counter, nonchalant and bored, this must be his last day in purgatory, he seems unperturbed, by the mosaic of neglect,
Surrounding him like an aureole, a middling Deity of the Rancid, he spills the coffee all over the serving tray and waltzes towards me, then
Back to his counter - A shrine of decay - stale muffins and pitiful sandwiches, weeping and perspiring, peering through the foggy glass, dreaming of escape

Milky froth dancing on the surface of the sorry concoction, reminds me of whirling dervishes meditating, like Saturn spinning on its axis, now a tourist attraction
Right across - a Debenhams, a Starbucks, an artisanal baker, an explosion of light and color, clean, shiny surfaces, interesting, smiling, men, women, children and salespersons so happy to be there, a mawkish illustration of mirth

Fireworks in cold stasis - gaiety and impermanence entwined like the profane and the sacred, a dance of no consequence, Cain kills Abel, over and over again, every instant, as neutrinos bombard the soft humus teeming with ecosystems so vast and unknown
Dresses, pullovers, pants, coats, bags, scarves, makeup, perfumes, creams, jewelry, buns, croissants, madeleines, eclairs choking on chocolate, tiered sugary cakes with sugary roses, towering before men, so much to feast on, enjoy, use, consume, devour

I am envious. These bright sunshine beings don’t inhabit the blighted planet of gloom, like coffee-man and me do, I came here because I am afraid of people, I am scared I will see,
Sunny smiles torn asunder, the febrile semblance broken, revealing Goya’s Pinturas negras, do not break the spell, like my Japanese friend, I prefer the kawaii to the bestial

I cried yesterday, though I feel foolish now, watching a starving polar bear wandering a velvet green expanse, skin and bone, muscles atrophied, unable to walk, a lopsided puppet missing strings to hold him up, mouth overflowing with white lather, chewing a brown paper bag, nothing to feast on or devour,
A white galleon, the crew slaughtered, floating on a dead green ocean, aimless, rudderless, waiting to crash its hull, its skull, against apathetic stone.
The bear dies.

Dying throes of a planet on its own, fighting virulence and stupidity, malignant, unthinking, multiplying cells gorging on dying flesh, blood, skins, bones, their gods, their offspring, each other, themselves - Everything can be eaten,
“This is horrible!” I exclaim, hot tears on my face, proceeding to watch something else, superheroes, spaceships, gangs, blood, dragons, killing, impaling, pillaging, raping, broken bones, eviscerated bodies, starving children bombed to smithereens, even the real carnage no longer slakes my thirst;

Something funny maybe - canned laughter abound, phrases dripping in sarcasm, or cynicism - enlightened, happy, easy going, non homeless, non racist, silly, pretty, witty people; on point gags,
The chicanery, the debates, the show, the pontiffs and the politicians speak, gibberish, lies, drama - all refraining a single thought,

To germinate or flower, my eyes are bright and dead, but no longer wet - Atropa belladonna

Thinking is dangerous, it’s anathema, it’s seismic,
It’s futile.

Tracing the edge of the coffee cup reminds me, of times bygone, some memories never age, they imbibe new flavors and strength, like aged wine, like aged women, they grow from saplings to trees, eager roots tearing open hearts and minds,
My hand unconsciously moves to the scar on my nose, where a cup of scalding coffee was thrown, by someone who professed to love me, love makes us do strange things... sometimes,

Not always, but sometimes, I think about god, if he or she or it or them, is pleased by what he or she or it or them sees, is it Ngai or Shiva or Kali or Mithra or Zeus? Do they witness the arias, the art, the fretting, the wars, the sighs, do they witness the breaking of a child, plucked flowers or the sales at Sainsbury’s? Why? How?

Only the raging, throbbing Black Widow pulsar listens, chewing through the Universe, devouring a brown dwarf larger than Jupiter, cautious steps of the beetle, pelagic songs of the humpback whale, the rhythm of a sparrow’s heart
Maybe it’s coffee-man, a petty God dethroned, his Kingdom usurped, wearing a dirty stiff apron, he can never feel any chagrin, even if I died drinking this atrocious concoction, he wouldn’t bat an eye, just like the other Guy?

Perhaps he’ll sit my corpse beside the yellow fern, placed before peeling, mutinous wallpaper, refusing to hide the mildewed wall, revolted by its nauseous task
He would call the cops with the urgency of a sloth, while my stupefied dead eyes started to bulge,
The thought made me laugh... coffee-man gave me a snarky look and sighed, as he turned the page of his gossip magazine, I thought about him,

Why was he here? Did he have children clamoring for his attention, a partner who patiently waits, a dog who contemplates by the door, wondering where his father-man went? I hoped for his sake, this was an interim gig,

He gazed longingly at glittery gowns and shapely breasts, he was dreaming of escape.