"diners" poems
her rigorous objections
are herded slowly down the sheep trail
by studious pencil thin men with stylish mustache's
who have deep pocket pickers for friends
they gather round the weak willed and the willing alike
looking for cheap thrills and spare change
everybody needs a new road
when the old one seems to never end
but she with eyes cast down
mumbles her unappeased desires
as she shuffles a little closer to the truth as she sees it
she has it all written out in secret languages
she has books filled with life's coded thoughts as she see's them
barn burners and dare devils grace the cover of her latest creation
self titled to her own romantic name
she is stylized in her own way
so she adores the pencil thin men
with their dashing devil may care good looks
i wrote her a letter yesterday
full of stories from the great highway
full of chipper go getters and the glum go gotten
she is a forever stone on a necklace
she is a moonstone on a bracelet
she is graceful when it counts and
thats more than enough for me
the pencil thin moustache men
come to conquer the all night diners
in the small shoreline towns
but slink away in dawns first light
with stolen smiles and borrowed kisses
that they promise profusely to return tomorrow
but never do
such is the romantic night by her side
such is the wonder-wheel days of our
journey on the great highway
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
Streaks
from worn out wipers
dented cans, plastic wrappers
the glow of a cigarette ****
lying comfortably
in the ashtray
white knuckles tight
on a weathered wheel
empty roads
cold and black
eyes tired but open
like trucker stops
or roadside diners
with the neons
still on
I keep driving
teetering between
my existence
and a sweet dream
I’d slip into that slumber
if not for the passengers
still fast asleep
in my back seat
So I keep driving
as quiet
and as lonely
as it may be
I keep driving
because
somebody
is putting
their trust
in me
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
mean beam bottom ***** without reluctance.
\\ air above \\
since forever baby boy: since forever liquid sparkler.
he has sense
& peanut butter jelly geography to his page.
his romance is of the west.
his eyes are of dandelions kicked & to the wind.
he moves like ancient turtle migration.
reaches feet to sidewalk \\ sand to depths \\ ride \\
night:
velcro-tightened mind withstanding.
party lights, ***** willows, retro punch, he
is orpheus descending: with all the elements positioned just so.
\\ jellyfish electric \\
he says he likes the loneliness.
he says it’s the water.
& so he moves \\ wills himself into the next measure.
liquid resolute bits.
so move \\ orca \\
curl of eye \\ so ride \\ black rollo wave \\
basilica \\ & \\
coral reaches below \\\\\
he likes to tell it, with warmed exaggeration.
slow-motion buffalo stampede. ride the railroads free & easy.
orange glowing bars of elsewhere. oscillating seal calls.
oily portland hipsters howling on the beach. those
juno cheeked rosy-red lips.
somewhere, sister getting married.
spring, summer, fall, winter, spring.
africa girl on a branch of a tree of a forest, overlooking elephant burial grounds.
color & white material:
plantations, gas stations, diners, & sharks.
this is the morning lunar \\
sweet blue beach of the old & awakening.
he crawls out & into her breaks.
her deep heights & bombora reef. the serotonin
functions twice, exposed between thin tissues of warm-blooded neurochemistry.
human, shown.
he is as a raw page, blank, yet
dipped \\
\\ so ride \\ bulbous waves of air mother agua \\
ride \\ &
\\ ride \\ &
brew by light these occurrences forever.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
I dream of going far away.
Plunging into the grandeur
And the vastness
Of the world.
I am ready to leave this place;
I am ready, I say,
To be away.
I will write and draw,
And take drugs with strangers.
I will sleep on the beach,
Bathe in rivers,
And plunge into nature,
Away from four walls,
From screens and cars,
And toward greenery and stars;
Splendid laughter and epiphanies
Spilling from the ether,
Behind trees and over mountains,
In the silent water of calm lakes,
And in the crimson sky
Of some northwestern twilight.
I will wander abandoned roads
And drink coffee in midnight diners
Thousands of miles from home,
For the road beckons,
And the moon never waits.
The wanderlust of youth
Is nothing to waste.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 4:35 AM UTC
3 AM and the famed
“World’s Best Coffee”
Isn’t doing the trick.
Dawn at diners
Is where the lonely
Gather for company
‘Cause we’re tired of
Laying alone on a bed
Too big for one
Too small for our thoughts
Too much of a reminder.
[Your imprint still fresh,
An outline to the right side of my pillowcase,
And some nights,
When I’m consumed by thoughts of you,
I’ll crawl into the depression,
And let the space engulf me,
Until I remember that,
Just ‘cause you laid on the right side,
Didn’t mean you were always right,
And a strange metaphorical hope
Bubbles out of me,
When I remember that
Hearts tilt to the left,
But, when you left,
It was quite heartless.]
We prefer indistinct strangers
Who we secretly hope
Have stranger problems
That maybe they’ll share
To make ours seem more bearable
But, more often than not,
We sit in a shared silence
Fatigued, insomniac, alone together,
The (lonely) only chatter with the night shift waitress.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 6:09 PM UTC
It almost feels like summer,
breeze at the dusk, killing mosquitoes.
It feels like
Taking a stroll on National Mall,
On a summer night in front of Lincoln Memorial.
Playing Frisbee riding bike
On the meadow in front of the Capitol.
My summer in the capital
With you, him and her and them and myself alone
It feels like the humidity in the swamp, with jazz playing in the background
It smells like crab cake and french toast, out from the diners I frequent
It looks like the summer sky, cloudless, your eyes
The meadow the ducks, summer dress and birkenstock.
Brunch, breeze and bike, followed by more bike rides along the riverfront.
Sitting on the marble stairs of the Supreme Court
Dipping toes in Reflection Pool
Summer in D.C. oh how I much do I miss you and adore
Summer is a state of mind and so does love
But you never fail to give me the feelings of those above.xxoo
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 5:04 AM UTC
I am riding on a limited express, one of the crack trains
of the nation.
Hurtling across the prairie into blue haze and dark air
go fifteen all-steel coaches holding a thousand people.
(All the coaches shall be scrap and rust and all the men
and women laughing in the diners and sleepers shall
pass to ashes.)
I ask a man in the smoker where he is going and he
answers: "Omaha."
3.4k
At a Parisean restaurant
In a quarter undisclosed
Unaware of everything
The diners sat exposed
As Clara and the Prince sat down
And prepared to eat their meal
Backstage the musician equipped himself
The theft who had yet to steal
As menus and music case opened
The scene was set for all
And as Rigo Jancsi took the stage
The crowd fell quiet, enthralled
The gyspy was a showman
His weapon a violin
A tune danced out across the room
As the strings began to sing
Playing notes of tales untold
His melody charmed her soul
The music pulled her heart to his
Over her husband's buttered roll
Captivated, entranced and mesmerised
Seduced by another life
And when the gypsy left that night
He took the Prince's wife
They ran away and married
A scandalous affair
Society was most surprised
But our story does not end there...
Hungarian tales tell of the man
Whose music stole a heart
Remembered in a chocolate cake
And puppets, songs and art
One hundred long years later
The guitar boy from the band
Strummed his notes and stole the girl
Heartstrings were played by hand
Two stories a century apart
What makes these stories the same?
Because the boy's band of musicians
Used the Hungarian gypsy's name
Dec 9, 2009
Dec 9, 2009 at 6:23 AM UTC
One hundred and fifty two posts in 2 weeks
a small camera surrounded by a sea of pink
is to blame
and be praised
Crisper, clearer, views of how I see the world,
easier than ever to see through my lens
my POV
picture it
Foot prints in the snow, beer pong, Dustin Lynch
retro diners, favorite TV shows, and hiking trips
this is me
easy to see
Words can be hard to find, ideas to describe
Hard to share your life with no one around
here's Instagram
post away.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 9:48 PM UTC
I shall love diners after Death
Famished from a million mile trek
Soft dances, whimsical, flowing
All in time and in step
Effervescent in its antiquity
Light penetrates the vociferate soul
A blinding silhouette Reveals the true physique
casting no shadows
back, at last, back to the harmony &
surrealism of our sacrarium, our home
no more hours to waste away
nothing to signifying
night from day
no need to search for words to convey
As we began we return just as we should
our recrudescence revivifies our sainthood
with No judgment charged upon us
with no reward for the good
neither condemned are the noxious
immoral nor the many many absurd
For those deleterious malignant calamities
must remain incarcerated on Earth
from whence it came
As we Return once again
soul cleansed in beatific death
The physical abandoned with sin
The dead left unknown,
un birthed
Shut in
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 8:49 PM UTC
Manhattan by line,
by subway track purr,
by foot in a midwinter
fresh, gale force air.
The dying battery in
Times Square's wristwatch,
halts hands in mid air,
each hailing the second taxi
that comes to them
every next minute;
definitely in the next ten.
Buried benches in thigh high
snow look lost, with
only their branching tops
on display for the tourist's show,
tramping through
this January snow.
Double-back, back
past the Chipotle store,
where diners stand and eat,
stand and greet,
stand with napkins to appear neat,
stand near the radiator to warm their feet,
stand-in-the-corner-and-text-your-wife-saying-you'll-be-home-late-because-this-meaty-wrap-is-pleasurable-to-eat.
He was with another woman, kissing her cheek.
Manhattan is a horizon of horizontal lines,
drawn by pencil lead, led up a page
to create this fascinating portrait
that a point-and-click-camera
cannot comprehend,
let alone negotiate.
We can go unnoticed there, like
most others in this gale force air,
but billboard boys-
the ones that braid ****** building hair,
window panes
and balcony balustrade-
are the famous ones
of Broadway, with nothing more
than their commercial stare.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
we rejoiced
when the sign on the parking meter said we could park for free.
your kind hand
in clumsy mind,
we strolled.
we were caught between the arts and business district,
so the shops and eateries weren't
sure if they should be cool or classy.
we strolled.
we passed an army of delis now abandoned.
a greek place,
a gelato,
a couple of hotel diners,
we rounded the block,
came back close to our start,
decided on the only restaurant
that was open.
as we were seated,
the already present patrons
stared ceaselessly, with no blinking.
people always stare at us.
i think they have trouble
categorizing us.
we aren't fat.
i don't wear affliction t-shirts,
you don't dress ******
we are caught somewhere
between the summer of '72 and indie rock brats.
our waiter was uneasy,
he had black hair, a beard,
a voice that squeaked and stuttered
as he boasted the organic and local support
the restaurant waved as their prideful flag.
order taken, people still throwing quick glances,
the music was right up our alley.
we took turns saying the names of the bands.
Cake, The Strokes, Spoon (the setlist's favorite), a deep cut from Bowie's Low, and a multitude of indie darlings that i can't remember.
i fell in love with you again.
i guess that makes the fifth or sixth time.
your child's eyes,
warm laughter,
and noble concern for the ****** state of the world.
it was good conversation,
it was good food,
it was a pleasant warm-up
for the remainder of our
getaway weekend.
Jul 27, 2010
Jul 27, 2010 at 10:10 AM UTC
I want to go to New York City with you
And stand hand in hand in Times Square
It sounds like it would be nice
To be blinded by the lights
But I suppose that whispering clumsy words would become tiresome
The hum in the air is not the lazy bliss of summer
It is the impatient growl of taxis
And we would not just be surrounded by lovers melting into each other’s arms
But also by people whose mothers have just died
Diners at midnight always seemed romantic
With my arm stretched across the table so I could entwine my fingers with yours
But it is important to remember that the lights in cheap diners always flicker
And the bags under the waitresses’ eyes will remind us of reality every time we ask for another refill
And yes, I know what drinking alone will do
And still, I’ll stick to what I know
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 8:06 PM UTC
If there’s one thing that unifies you and me, it’s heartbreak
If you’ve never experienced it to the fullest, you’ve seen it somewhere.
On your favorite tv shows, that song on the radio, on the girl’s face at the bar
On your lover’s face when you walk out the door the last time
And when you do feel it for the first time, you’ll want to be alone but please don’t be alone
You’ll want to bottle it up but
that’s a breakdown at work waiting to happen
That’s crying to his friends
That’s calling him after 1am, knowing he isn’t asleep yet
That’s driving by his apartment and holding your breath
That’s feeling like your hometown isn’t yours anymore, it’s a place you used to be with him
It’s feeling like the seasons are taunting you of when you were in love
The first fall of snow is the feeling of his hug
The lighting of the tree reminds you of warm cups of coffee on the couch
You dread New Year’s Eve because only 365 days ago, you danced with him in the street as the clock struck midnight
It’s knowing you will dance alone this year
You don’t look at your body the same way. You know how he saw it and you don’t see the beauty he did anymore
Your face doesn’t look like yours, it’s the one he used to hold in his hands
like a sparking jewel
He could marvel forever
I know he’s the first thing you think of when you wake up alone
And he wakes up next to her
Something that used to feel so concrete has been pummeled to dust
and now you’re left to scatter the ashes
So you drive by, the commons, the bbq joint, the movie theater, the lighthouse, the coffee shops, the all night diners, the book shops, the arcades, the antique stores, all the places you’ve made memories together
But please toss your heartache out the driver’s side window as you pass his apartment
because now it’s the only thing you two have in common
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 4:49 PM UTC
In a land-mass mural hung high over my
(Smaller, Statelier) existence -
One boy, permeated in a maple-flavored monotony - one boy, half-asleep in harlequin headaches and half-assed homework - one boy, munching on metaphorical muffins - one boy -
COUNTDOWN: 5 , 4 , 3 , 2 , 1
BREAKDOWN: B , E , N , N , Y
(Where am I?)
Between bridges burned with cigarette butts, within ***** all-night diners and pieced (or pierced) together by solemn, salt-encrusted shadows
(I could come to you, you could come to me)
(Petit a petit, l'oiseau fait son nid)
Track my tiny rabbit feet through location services and ten-second hints
(Instagram my dead body)
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
at breakfast
another hotel restaurant
another choice to be made
of mediocre cooked
or bland continental
a fish bowl
of floor to ceiling
panoramic windows
people-watching
strangers passing
insignificantly through
one another's universes
parents desperate
to negotiate the morning
without a scene
suits with shirt and tie
top buttons undone
for now
retiree couples
happy in each others silence
or those lucky ones
who still find words
when alone together
or the curious
solo diners
alone and lost
in their own thoughts
or striving to hide
how they watch
those others
as they go about
their business
of goodness-knows-what
another banquet shared
unbeknownst to all
in attendance
Jun 11, 2023
Jun 11, 2023 at 4:43 PM UTC
Hey kid, I woke up buzzing, here
In the future ruins of ancient America.
Staring, after the imperial sunrise,
Listening to Los Angeles on repeat.
Insistent and purple, only
Sediment left in the
Bottles of night.
This third-world way
Causes Third World War
So I'm drinking at a
Tavern on the End.
The bus goes by, and
"Baseball's the worst sport."
Alliteration, allusion,
Colors, characters,
And metaphors.
Sobriety sending me
Searching for smoke.
Rehash, re-up, and "read the ****** thing." My world-view,
Out-maneuvering your
Upbringing.
(The memories I have are white and yellow.
Fogged, not angry, if even confused.
You'd call me, after finishing your nightly readings, to cry about the characters you'd loved, and castigate my inability to care.
Remember when you used "undermined" to describe the adaptation?
You meant that it was "assuming too much.")
"Brenda and Eddie," over here,
"Couldn't go back to the greasers" so they
Wound up at your family's tavern.
"You look like the fat kid,
On whom the popular girl was
Forced to settle."
Dear Man,
Woman's found you out. Or
Are we, justly, doomed to be
More juvenile?
Worn sole, soul-open, "so long,
Kid, I don't know you, but,
I can't help myself from
Destroying you."
(My upbringing: out-maneuvering
Your world-view.)
"You've always been the caretaker, Flagstaff."
The bait's in your brain.
You've simply been
Overlooking the barkeep.
(Dear Diary, could I just die already?
The Price is Life, and purgatory's a game show.
Anger, the color of your mother.
Skin, the shade of yard-work.
Staring at road maps of Virginia, stoic.
Trying to divine the diners we'd die in.)
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 3:41 AM UTC
Experience is as satisfying as a double whiskey sour
as a tired director tours middle america on foot:
a drifter doused in the aroma of greasy roadside diners,
sullying his brown suede boots in gritty mud and mica.
He thinks he is real american- as he scavenges
inspiration from a photo of a lone tree,
an overweight waitress,
a broken down motorcycle...
A small depression in the ***** pavement
is the most famous footprint most towns have seen;
they come and go as quickly as passing cars;
as quickly as fame and infamy.
He thumbs his way from
state to state, picked up in nowhere Ohio by
a passing Van filled with a burgeoning indie band.
They discuss irony, old films and a mutual
dislike of disco as the van storms past town after town.
The band tours the country looking for fame
as he tears from town to town attempting to forget it.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
I miss what was:
The late nights,
Street lights,
Midnight diners,
And old music.
I think to myself
How lonely this is,
When the past
Was so splendid.
They're memories
That should make me smile;
They only empty me --
Isolate my heart,
And show me what
I no longer have.
The small cracks
Become canyons
That you can't fill,
Look what we are:
Distant stars,
Drifting apart.
Lonely satellites,
Singing to ourselves
In the depthless
Void.
Perhaps I'll find,
In due time,
Some lovely light,
Somewhere,
In the sky,
And we can sing,
Together.
Yes, we can sing,
Perhaps forever.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 7:56 PM UTC
Tremors, filagrees, tendrils
Laughter and lamentation
Coffee conversation
Nonchalant smoking of a cigarette
passed between street-stained fingertips.
He draws pictures in films of sugar
piled high like illuminating sand dunes
on the formica tabletop,
dismissing eye contact as
just one of those things.
Take it or leave it.
The menu we've seen before
in various other places
just like this
with similar generic names
and similar generic faces.
Places a crumpled dollar bill
in front of the waitress
"We'll share a coffee"
Such is the way of life when you're broke and homeless.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
A man sits diagonally in front of me
to my left in the diner
Over his shoulder, I see
he’s navigating Facebook
on a cheap laptop
Behind him, I’m writing this poem
Every 13 seconds a notification rings
He has a Facebook message
The notifications are messages from a woman
She types heart shapes in place of words
It is the standard online flirtation
that has replaced real relationships
He is quite popular
as he eats toast with purple jelly
and sits alone
People once came to diners
to chain smoke cigarettes
and drink pots of coffee
and think
and talk
and read poetry
We didn’t have much
but we had each other
Now we’re individuals
who sit in silence
alone
Some of us get chat notifications
Some of us write poems
All of us still get the coffee
and the toast
with purple jelly
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC
I see the cockroach
caress the counter next to a brewing
*** of coffee, striking a chord of
crystaline sweetness,
that God and Satan could both agree upon.
In the living room,
my best friends are killing each other,
kissing each other,
falling in love,
snagging,
splitting stitches,
chalk outlines,
black mail,
and hopes for a resurrection
swirl and spin with the scent
of perfume
and coffee beans.
My phone lights up with a message
asking for some real advice,
my response is to get a new religion,
and wait for the bombs to fall.
Outside
light pollution fills the sky,
an eerie day that just won't die,
negotiating with eager streetlights,
and all-night diners.
On the corner
of 23rd and Western,
a dancing grinderman,
a homeless woman with a snaggletooth smile,
and their prize of a monkey
are cutting the night with desperation croons,
and delightful foresight.
Just past the construction on the east side of the city,
a one-legged, heathen named James W. Green
is finding solace with
a defeated, overthehill harlot,
going to and fro in a motorized sanctuary,
and grabbing change from her coin-dispensing hips.
I discover a pen embedded in the carpet,
I spend the rest of the evening split
between Midnight Man poetry,
and dictating divine apocrypha,
while once bright-eyed friends of mine
mourn over marriage, self-medication strategies,
and scrape the bottom of the barrel
with their tongues to ensure it's tangible.
Jan 5, 2011
Jan 5, 2011 at 7:42 AM UTC
Just keep livin in this feelin
Never am I beleivin
That **** thats written
Questin for questionin
Im losin
No reasonin
No serotonin
Jane, dope burnin got me floatin
Lucy dances turnin got me smilin
Druggy desperate runnin got me huffin
Huff and puff an puff, pass
One piggy in a house oh straw smokin grass
Nother piggys house of glass
Last piggys house of cards but, alas
Little piggys grow big and pass
One pig in the straw smoked over ash
Nother pig served with a glass
Last pig out of cards, alas
Last pig out of the farm
Free hog free from the harm
Hunted down with a firearm
Pow Pow hogs need not roam
No escapin the farm
Just dyin in a drugged calm
Or dyin strugglin in dirt, ****
So just chill and spread *****
New meat for the grinders
Fresh meat for the diners
Pigs aint **** but some dinners
For pigs with gold incisors
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
They say their is calm now,
smells of spent munitions subsiding.
Lying around and ferried under a different blue the viewers and listeners, the diners and walkers.
One witness speaks of the bodies so high his wife could not climb over,
another of explosions a block away.
Carnage the reporter says as a man mentions the sight of men in black entering a music hall with Kalashnikov rifles, him gifted a choice not to enter.
The news speaks of pierced body parts, an arm, a leg, a shoulder, so many dead, 120 the number that exist no more, rising, many many more the casualties of this next step in a new world war.
Flashes and bangs, whistles and booms, sirens scream as forces reign down.
Tears, shock, the misery on faces, much sadness heaped on a peace seeking nation.
We now know some say why they chose Paris, some claim it is the fault of the west.
Others of ignorance by intelligent beings that choose violence instead,of democracy, though democracy to them has lost its edge to a world full of capitalist cronies who themselves choose numbers over humanity, so's said.
We are left to pick up pieces of what is left behind, we will grow stronger in the face of adversity.
Hoping one day that the so called wise people are wise, seeing solutions instead of this continuous cycle of violence and death.
Nos pensées vont à tous ceux qui sont touchés, nous montrons la solidarité avec le peuple français et à leurs invités.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC
It seems to have spontaneously combusted, but it didn’t. The disease struck long ago, brewed in the petri dish of Depression, WWII, and convergent technologies. Well before that, really, but that was the point of critical mass. By the 1950's, it was an epidemic. The independent Republic of individuals, small towns, coherent communities, distinct cities, local diners, shops and stores tied together with two lane blacktop was crumbling. Things only got worse faster. It was a disease of toxic, lulling dreams. American Dreams. And standardization was its crushing foot that flattened everything and left a homogenized wasteland in its trail. The old gods vanished and the new became despots. Go anywhere in America, Boston or Biloxi. You can’t tell where you are. Most shop at the same stores (real or virtual), eat at the same chain restaurants, wear the same clothes, gulp from the same Internet, swallow similar information, and think (within acceptable variations) the same thoughts. Even sin has become tediously consubstantial. Knowledge has been supplanted by content. Words are squeezed of meaning. Everyone is an expert and no one knows anything. Except Siri and Alexa. The Dreamtime of consumerism, consumption and conformity dominates. All that remains to come is the dominion of AI. Then we will all be watched over by machines of loving grace, free to graze in bovine bliss in the cybernetic meadows of bland utopia.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 6:54 AM UTC