• I have a thing for coffee shops. What can I say? The place this was written about (and for, it seems) has since closed down.

this view & marlboros

no prince charmings in white pontiacs.

no blue-boys in corduroys or wide-legs         with teeth that gleam
		
here.

only this 

rat-trap, this . . .

beat street; the dead boulevard full of 

slick cats and slow-eyed 	     prostitutes.


what a sad strip. 	    what a cremated scene.

bouncing


up & down		     are the half-naked dreams of     mortal     married     men:

bubble-gum girls 	    all painted up, all

prettified & rounded out; all liquified & watered down to
      
next to nothing

save some concentrated extract of 	      long legs	       & cute ass 

& tight . . .  smile.

intimate strangers 

catch a whiff 	        of thighs so wide they hypnotize & 

what's between them is      always     only     as real     as a hard-headed john

wants it to be.


i know this town & its imagination.

i know this avenue & its secret scandalous perversion.

i watch its throw-aways squeak through another day      	without.	

no


smooth dudes make a move without fake gold.	         but

we all know fake pussy is best & twice as often sold. & it's

cold  	outside--as it should be, in january--thin veils of encrusted snot
 
drip down	       	from the noses of   		  shady beat-cops

coming out of this 


dim-lit	         coffee-shop.


but the catch is, to this hopeless wreck, 

like i told benny (back from michigan, again) is that: "we pull poems

right out of our asses." 	      the whole goddamn coffee-shop collective!

nouveau beatniks!		      hooked on phonics,

on caffeine & stale cigarettes.

and


i do--right?     write right out 

of my ass. 

i can--the best bullshit 

around


is my bad poetry from staring out 

this window & on to 13th st.

so


i guess it ain't all that bad

at the end of the day--we still got art. 	    we've still got hunger . . .
 
& glamour; simple ways to turn a phrase and lilt the voice in fluctuating 

inflections. 		     funky		      voluptuous		fuck-

tiferous & functional 	      manners.  

just seem to have a knack for unraveling & weaving deceptions.	 and you;	     you 	

still have that phone number on the inside flap of a matchbook

from the guy you met 	     six weeks ago 	      in the club across the way

. . . & around the corner.       and, ya know:     we're all still waiting to see what happens with that.

cuz


it ain't all burnt out.

it ain't all washed up.

and		           tomorrow?

well, hell!


put together . . . we just might not have enough to buy

a cup of coffee.	       but i'll bet

we'll still have 

this view 	       	and marlboros

& plenty more


to say.

• Chy Ryan Spain

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