He orders a plate of his favorite cigarettes
(Lucky Strike) (filterless) (nostalgia)
and a cup of coffee
at his favorite diner across town
that surprisingly hasn't burnt down yet.

He sits at a window booth and
he observes
a couple making lust in the street(Lucky Strike).
He observes
an infant child begging his mother to stay(filterless).
He observes
hummingbirds pecking at the corpse of a dog(nostalgia).

His hat is emblazoned
with valor and bloodshed and death.
His legs are turning into dust
out in the midst of a battlefield
where other soldier's limbs are turning into dust.

Yeah, he fought for t(his) (nostalgia).

When I say, do you feel me?
I'm not meaning in a literal sense.
Get your hands off of my mindset.

Real cinema within your brain
A trillion pictures still remain
Cut and spliced a patchwork quilt
First devoured and then rebuilt
Stored and cycled round and round
Held on file and then re-found
Fantasies and fact combined
In visions of the human mind.

I’d like to start
By saying that I have had
So many great memories
(Mornings of Phish shows,
before skiing, going to college,
high school lunch with friends)
Standing in front of your counter
As I eagerly watch you
Flip my sizzling eggs,
My succulent bacon.

Is there any spirit, Jim,
More jolly than yours?
Any soul more deeply content
To engage in pleasant small talk
With the local old ladies,
To put stickers
On their macaroni salad containers
And smile,
To tell them, “Thanks for shopping here,”
As you wipe your hands
Off on your white apron,
Tied off just beneath your proud belly,
And really mean
Every word?

Jim, you have touched the food
Of many, the lives
Of many.

Your store has survived
Well into the age of the supermart
And still the people come back.
They come back for
Your fresh eggs,
For your incredible meats,
Your perfectly baked goods.

But Jim,
Sometimes,
They come back
For you.

The cheese-mites asked how the cheese got there,
And warmly debated the matter;
The Orthodox said that it came from the air,
And the Heretics said from the platter.
They argued it long and they argued it strong,
And I hear they are arguing now;
But of all the choice spirits who lived in the cheese,
Not one of them thought of a cow.

When it's time to leave
and ashes blacken on overturned seats
from here it's uneven netting set at sea

When time has become astral
wan of anything unwanted
like this being  long exhausted

Here I've seen things
in hungry moments
and  the sun was lost
from creating tears
unto fallen leaves

This is black autumn, my black autumn coming
when every little twig and soil harbor neglect

I do not know how far I must see...
my blurred edges
cropped from heavy falling feet
how can it be that you are lost

My little me?


For love I did not harbor
For love I did not live
For love is no place
In arenas where beings play rabid

Continued is this unending drone
from a time no one knows
then I grew to be merely hindered
for there is nothing that faulty lines can mend

That whistling Milkman so long ago
With tunes so happy and gay,
So very little did he know
How well he started my day,

The tinkling bottles
Of milk and cream,
Awoke me each morning
From my dreams,

With happy tunes
From this whistling man,
Brightening the day
Before it began.