aayoungIt’s ordinary…
mundane, absolutely nothing special.
Part of a set that was purchased in the late 80’s
or early nineties would be my guess.
This brown, plastic 1/8 cup scoop
that came to symbolize our every morning
spent sharing coffee
no matter if we were 12 inches
or 1,200 miles apart. We always had coffee.
It is special because he sent it to me
in a care package when I was aching for him.
I still ache for him,
so it’s my coffee scoop until my dying day.
Hosted by the hilarious Eric Lawson, Make Your Own Fun is a series where writers of every ilk are interviewed, but mostly freegin’ poets.
there are nights
I don’t give a damn
if Elvis ever sang anything
but Kentucky Rain
10 pm
fresh out of sin
headed for a sip
in a bergamot tearoom
I became distracted
my January boots
compelled
to follow memories
through puddles of patchouli oil
stalls peddling shiny baubles
half finished dissertations
and bohemian postulation
stopping abruptly
at Biagio’s Bistro
fine Italian cuisine
featuring a gourmet dessert cart
a self service bar for the regulars
despite having
no customers &
a candlelit patina
covering
a thousand nights
spent ruining tablecloths
lovingly destroying
illusions
your every word brilliant
eyes alight
that saccharine fucking
Andrea Bocelli CD playing
on maddening repeat
my laughter too loud
for the intimate room
we were certainly doomed
our conversations
were always the wildest sex
i smiled remembering
into the fezziwig glow
of the old window
warmed by the fact
they still haven’t dusted
when
my ears perked alive
as suddenly crept
haunted sounds of
a minstrel show
a hand
strumming a guitar
your voice
in half notes
amidst sodium lamp motes
drawing me toward
that ancient apartment building
where you
serenaded me
I began to
swiftly seek
certain
I would find you
if only the source of the sound
was located
before the melody ended
rounding the corner
I found myself all alone
with weary dumpsters & brownstones
breathing clouds of longing
hair damp
with the scent
of dead pine wreaths
& recollection
because
truth be told
i miss my friend
so true without you
there will never again be
music for me
on the perpetually wet streets
of Clifton
you should’ve stuck around, Dad
antidepressants were only
a few years away
or smoked pot
hell,
it’s so ironically wrong that you obliterated yourself
in Kentucky
when marijuana
was the top cash crop
in the state
every night you were away
i sought you out
through blackberry bramble ether
from weeping constellations above dixmyth avenue
to jessamine county barns filled with horse hay
perpetually wrapping blue ribbon around my finger
whispering vespers
my plea to the particles of the universe
to hold you together
to bring you back from oblivion
as you had done for me
you are my chosen family
inextricably part
of my thunderous heart
to which you will always hold the latchkey
when the oxycodone and meth crops fail in kentucky
the country folk flock
across the ohio river into cincinnati
to go to the open air opioid market
people once came to the queen city from the south
to get factory jobs that no longer exist
they were called briar hoppers
we don’t have a name for these new immigrants
other than marginalized, homeless, inmate, and DOA’s
but they’re good at making change
a five dollar bill on the streets of this town
will turn into a baggy of heroin
faster than it will turn
to singles
i was born in the poorest county
in the fifth poorest state in the union
though kentucky isn’t truly a state
it’s a commonwealth
where wealth is uncommon
and the only glistening skylines
down in those parts are tombstones
i’ve known for years at heart
i’m an expatriate
who wants no part
of that prime real estate
my Uncle Etheridge
was grace personified
a Kentucky horseman
of noble heart
my grandmother’s dear brother
who frequently had
a formidable pipe
clenched between his teeth
and from him plumed
rich histories in tobacco smoke
finely crafted stories
commanding our young attention
dignified in a way few men are
what I loved most about him
was his deep bass voice
a black velvet tide
rolling toward you
a gentle thunder
over a Bluegrass prairie
Kentucky
has a way about it
that feels
both timeless
and impermanent
without ever
choosing a side