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 remembered how to dream


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