This was scribbled one evening at the Portfolio, an excellent coffee house in Long Beach. It’s not exactly poetry, more along the lines of random observation, something I have frequently engaged in and seldom felt compelled to preserve or share. So why is this one here? Why the hell not? I was bored on a Sunday afternoon, and trolling my journals for interesting scraps, where I found many, many dozens of interesting ones, entirely forgotten! I will be adding plenty of this content over time, as it amuses me to do so, and you certainly don’t mind, do you? Didn’t think so.
Another night in the coffee house; seated on a well-worn red sofa, I sip my mocha and scan the room. It is unusually quiet tonight- only Sonic Youth to disrupt my reverie.
Beside me, a long-haired artist scribbles in his notebook, his light brown air hanging ’round huge deep eyes. Lips pursed in concentration, he deftly exchanges pencils and takes in worlds of colour and form, transforming them, taming them, making them his. Expressions shifting musically with his work, he follows the ebb and flow of his creative impulse.
At the bar, a lonely punk with a bright pink highlighter, and homework. A silver-studded belt holds up a loose paitr of Dickies, looking strangley apt on her narrow Asian frame. Sipping her coffee, she flips a few pages in her text and begins again.
At a table across the way sits a stunning beauty, barely out of her teens. Long black hair spills across her shoulders as her pen dances gracefully across the page. Silver rings gleam upon her hands, her tiny mouth and gentle eyes narrowed in concentration, her perfect breasts peeking out from beneath a tight black tank-top, “Thank You” emblazoned across. If only this pen could capture her as a camera!
Seated at the table beside me, a couple engage in silent conversation, gazing wordlessly at one another. In front of her, a small laptop computer hums; in front of him, a newspaper with notes in the margins. He leans forward suddenly, kissing her neck; I look away politely.