Muted by windows, traffic drones
\nits uptodowndoppler low growl
\nrumble pounding bass sibilance murmur
\nirrational abstract concordant dance
\nthat we ignore now, grown used
\nClink of coffee spoons memories of
\nBen\u2019s in Montreal, presided over by those
\nbow-tied white shirted nine o\u2019clock shadow
\nwaiters, and the little sign on every table:
\n\u201cUse less sugar, stir like mad:
\nwe don\u2019t mind the noise.\u201d
\nWe carry that behind the eyebrows
\ncoffee spoons that measure out the time
\neach time we meet before the drone
\nrumble subtle quaking China \u2014 no
\nchina in the cabinet so civilized our afternoons
\nmothers used to meet in hats and we repeat
\nstirring like mad without hats as in church now too
\nin the almost empty pew we sit and nod
\nthe sorry mundane hymns strummed by guitar
\nvulgate is so vulgar; where are the gregorian echoes
\nsoaring over organisms roaring everything but Ave
\nmurmuring grace after meals in self-inflicted sweetness
\ntonsured cowled sunlight streams through incense
\nswung in a clicking censer by the trembling altar boy
\nsome ritual a liturgy that carries us forward
\nthrough the measured insistence of the clock
\nthe calendar, passing of the moon the stars reeling
\nthe hockey stats guitars and simple reinventions
\non the wheel of music oh carry me back saint catherine
\nthrough my fault through my most thump thump thump
\nto the lone pew kneeling in submission to the will of
\nmomma who insisted we attend this church
\nof pappa\u2019s while he was away and she went her way
\nto hell the nuns told me and fueled my nightmares
\nfor years stink of flesh burning in the ovens those good people
\nspread upon me like cream cheese on white crustless bread
\noh god forgive me but like Huck I\u2019d rather
\ngo there with my beloved momma than with you
\nwhom I do not know except as a long beard in
\na burning bush yelling kill kill kill or you cant go home
\nSo we stir our coffee inhale the aroma of the sacred
\nbeans roasted ground brewed to perfection
\nthe hit is in the smell why drink it when you can
\njust sniff an aphrodisiac and love everybody
\nno, he said, I\u2019ll have to go to war far far away and
\nso he went dragging all of our nightmares over there
\nover there channeling the powerful dopplered drones
\nof spitfires messershmidts in dogfights over
\nthe newsreels great parade of flags and fireworks
\nand enemy death carefully censored with dark eyes
\nperhaps a cat prowling on the windowsill
\nlooking in, her intense green eyes longing
\nto curl up nearby while we talk about the talk
\nthe talk that streams through dreams and days
\nthrough newspaper newsprint onto the internet
\ninto the onternet until singing voices wake up
\nand we crown at 3:57 in the morning it\u2019s a boy
\nseven pounds five point three ounces palindrome
\ncongratulations and the small talk drones on
\ndopplering in and out of my eyes like rainbows
\nover the other side of the river near the blue cliffs
\nthe river we all cross towards the light
\nand all our friends stirring like mad ignoring
\nthe tears the embarrassing tears that drip
\noff the ends of our noses for we miss all
\nthese dear friends with whom we shared
\nall these coffee aromas and discussed everything
\nthat didn\u2019t oh I\u2019d live to tell you all my true loves
\nI\u2019d live to love you if I could the traffic
\nO the traffic of the street is so discreet I cannot
\nparticipate except to hesitate stirring coffee
\nwhile our hearts drip out pale thready treacle
\nand a moment at a time, it is too late.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Muted by windows, traffic drones its uptodowndoppler low growl rumble pounding bass sibilance murmur irrational abstract concordant dance that we ignore now, grown used Clink of coffee spoons memories of Ben\u2019s in Montreal, presided over by those bow-tied white shirted … Continue reading