God bless
the weary cynic.

We’re disappointed
in the food,
our world,
ourselves.

Through the brown film,
a world gone lickity split,
with or without
our input.

I slip in some silver so
Dylan moans a foghorn lament
in dim flicker juke box jive,
“But it’s all right Ma, I’m only sighing…”
I stir in yellow cream to cut the bitter
“Notes from Underground”
we’re all taking down.

Delta, with her dirty thumb print and
“I’m with Stupid” t-shirt,
drops my platter with a faded flower twirl,
and her skirt splits high
on her river delta thigh
in unfocused bluebell desire.

Cookie peers possum eyed from the kitchen,
caught in a headlight,
he never gets my eggs right.
I order sunny side,
but everything ends up scrambled.
I don’t dare send them back.

The angst ridden Doe Girl
seems trapped between
disappointment and disgust,
considers her wrist,
but it’s a pose, as the cynic knows,
while Altar Boy
has the caffeine jitters,
slurps and sniffles
but can’t stop the crying.

And Preacher Man wrings his hands
and whispers,
“I speak to and of thee,
but don’t always believe in thee.”
So Agnostic says,
“There ain’t no atheists in fox holes,
and this here’s one big fox hole.”
But One-eyed Vet claims,
“It’s clear who never served.”

Dog Face rolls a smoke on the Formica,
hits his inhaler,
casts a brown stain tombstone grin at Delta,
“Honey, you got the style,
and I got nothin’, but when night falls,
we go home alone
to writhe in twisted sheets.”

Cross-eyed Cashier
can’t get her dyslexia under control.
Paying is a crap shoot,
but in the end,
in always equals out.

God bless
the weary cynic.

It was during our time here,
we transitioned.
Holy spirits became empty ghosts,
and now the challenge:
To somehow change back.

11/29/2007