Fancy Feast

Click to read!  I like the little thumbnail because the distance makes the image I was trying to create easier to see.

Breathing Hot Air

He sits silent, suffering, unable to keep still
hands together gratefully, thumbs in dialogue,
Leans back into himself and out of conversation but...

Waiting, hearing the emptiness so loud he can't
Listen to anything else as he's counting thoughts,
Irregular clock, fuck! how long has it been?

There is a deliberateness in his response to a word
sounding stark inside the soundless scene, like,
like sucking all the escaping smoke and coughing

Fits and stammers do more to help the hated silence
than break it:
He clears his throat, begins to speak his turn,

But someone else takes it.

Bon Appetit

The sun is shining without heat. 
There is no breeze. 
Toying with the idea of coffee
but sick of the way things linger obstinately,
he orders a water instead. 
Ice for the entropy. 
The universe is chilling now,
every atom of stubbornness, maliciousness, anger
worn so thin that it paints demons on the wall
when held up to the light,
is tiring of the dance. 
Accelerating towards the stand-still. 
This is a grand way to break-out fast. 
The swarthy waiter wearing a warm smile that stops just short
of baring cigarette-stained teeth tries to hand him a menu. 
He fingers it gently, marveling for the last time at how the plastic catches his skin
like soft hands unsure of when to let go,
knowing that farewell is inevitable. 
Just as he knows he will wave away the laminated list,
each line as artfully constructed
as a poem, and order a croissant. 
It's the perfect moment,
enjoying the light morning:
an ephemeral pleasure
that will undoubtedly give way as the sun grows heavier
in the sky, but made all the sweeter for it. 
He sips his water,
tasting the roundness of the filter,
the flavor of every impurity made starker
as they suddenly find it unnecessary to compete any longer. 
Perhaps the croissant will come soon. 
Perhaps it will never come,
and he will still be sitting here.  
But the timid rustle of a paper bag proves surprisingly concrete. 
The water tastes of the tin cup it sits in. 
The sun is cold, broken up into bars
as it passes through the window. 
And the croissant delivered to his cell
is from a passionless hack
working the kitchens to avoid manual labor and a stab. 
It's chewy.