In books, time flies, and writers live
out musings of dreams or nightmares.
What does your dream speak of?
Is it soft colored tones and rhythmic melodies?
The cursed Alliteration tongue-ties
the best of the well dressed
and poor of heart.
We dream of tulips in Amsterdam-
windmills Don Quixote once fought.
Where is his beautiful Dulcinea now?
An unfettered love of open spaces,
brings our mind’s eye
to closeted afternoons of tea and cigarettes, all the while musing of this week’s critic — who hasn’t read
T. S. Eliot in nine years.
Coleridge’s opium addiction was never front page news,
nor the presumed rabid Poe.
Our father of the unforgotten story.
Shutting us in a sepulcher by the sea. Our time is coffee houses
and misquoted classics. Another martini to soothe the burn of time
and unprinted words lost in a notebook on our nightstand.
Frightened of Failure we fill
pockets with stones and
swim in water that swallows us whole.
We shut our heads in books and hope for the divine, brilliant awakening. Dylan Thomas in limelight
staggers forth, his words clouding allusions of park benches in fall
as Robert Frost ponders
death after picking apples.
Their ideas, our divine—
Smoke filled coffees, lattes, mochas,
our mouths water
for what was simple,
what has been deluded
and twisted into being simple.
Was anything ever simple?
The Byronic Hero sits watching
the slow sax, drone out
his frustration, fear of failure
and ineptitude.
He ruminates on his straw, breaking his teeth with his thoughts.

And we sit.
slowly sipping our vodka, gin, whiskey…
wondering if time changes,
or if the changing times
are merely a result of boredom.