Sally laughed and
freaked and shrieked
when he said it
Eddie’s eyes popped
out of his head
when he said it
Did you know his
real name was
Charlies Claverie
And he went to art school
with Gus Van Sant
and David Byrne
Did he know when he said
that word
it would mean
an end to late-night writing
riffing and inter-cast fighting
an end to the spotlight haze
Goodbye to Saturdays.
Sally laughed and
freaked and shrieked
when he said it
Some books you keep for
the inscription, not for the book.
The spine on your shelf
reminds you of the moment
they gave you that present,
the feeling of something landing
when you opened it later that night.
I mean, Herman Wouk is not your thing.
Never became your thing.
But you can see the spine now, sometimes
open the book itself
and picture their hand floating over the page
scribbling an idea into words that
stick around, along with a book
you’ll most likely
never read.
Hi all,
I wanted to let you know that a collection of my poems and stories is now available on Amazon in print and kindle!
I thought I’d reshare the title poem here, which was originally about the joy of lemonade and coffee shops. Over time it became about other things that go away and come back — like creativity. But these last few weeks, it’s become about missing lemonade and coffee shops all over again. Ah, lemonade and coffee shops.
Best!
-Cecil
The Lavender Lemonade Is Back
The lavender lemonade is back
at my local coffee shop.
I’d given up on her.All the lemon factories, moved off-planet.
“We Thank You For Your Business.”Empty cups, traced with
mint and cane.I’ve been lost
behind the
lost
behind the
dark berry side of this Lavender Moon.
Here comes the lemonade.
Eating a
chicken apple sausage
is like eating a
chicken sausage
while some guy pokes
little pieces of apple
in my mouth.
And I’m like hey:
just let me eat this
chicken sausage, mister.
An underrated skill. The ability to
enjoy the sky,
a perfect book
a wonderful chat
a cup of tea,
if that’s your thing.
Not a case of denial.
Just watching the news, making plans
and then taking out your boxes.
These ancient things.
“Look at him. Look at her,” they might say:
“Check out that outstanding
compartmentalizer.”
Wondering about
all the quarantine screenplays
that are being written right now
in smallish spring apartments with
open windows where
people perhaps don’t bother
zipping up their flies as
much as they
normally would.
The romcoms sure about falling in
love on Zoom, but also
the quarantine buddy comedies the
online detective stories the
psychedelic misadventures the meditative spiritual
wonderama’s the Judd Apatow-produced
off-color with a heart of gold
guy and gal night outs without
actually going out the
all in one day coming of age
teen true stories the castaway
remakes with a basketball because that’s what was on hand
and the turners.
and the hooches.
The line that gives way over time
to oxygen and new molecules, bumbling about
That softens delineation with a hand that jumps
That leaves smudgeframed, then unframed a thing you asked to live inside a rectangle
(“hey, won’t you please live inside this awesome rectangle?”)
Until that frame is zap-gone and that thing is just out there, unframed
fighting its own good fight against lots of seconds, occasional humidity, and a light breeze
that same light breeze
it’s always that same dang
light breeze.
as a thing that deserves extra meaning, how could
we use this phrase and you’d all follow? Such as:
“My head today, and your voice. My head, that rotting frame…”
and you’d know we meant the lines were shaky,
there was too much give and
you were breaking in
while I was away
and drinking tea with all my
tea cups.
throwing someone their cappuccino. the air doing
its best to keep things collected, to create
a charmed path.
ceramic following after, or
sometimes
leading in a tumble
heart-shaped froth fanning
out toward my
waiting
grip.
Johnny was always starting gangs
but he rarely finished them.
Which explained all those half-formed gangs
hanging around town
looking for Johnny.
Not really sure.
What to do next.