i wanna be a Cafe Beatnik in
beat-up baseball caps with teams I never heard of over
messy dark hair and
my grunge look;
picture me prolific spittin' verse one foot on
Formica tabletops stained in grease and coffee spill paintings monumental
to Regular #42: Mr. Frank, the guy whose cigarette is never lit
but he swears he's a smoker,
as if you'd advertise your method of suicide
(but would you?)
Picture me poetic flower prose on paint-chipped walls,
something so important you felt the need to take that rusty-ass Bowie knife
and carve it
three inches deep in the cracked wood of table 26
(you're still washing dishes for that one, huh?)

imagine I'm John Lennon Yeats Whitman
cummings of the laureate loop,
the writer incomparable- on the sidewalk in New York
where people commune just to hear me think.

I could believe in that,
i could hope for it,
if only I knew how to dream

2007 Underground Voices