No Use Crying Over a Lost Cappuccino, Camp St.

A freshly bought cup of coffee
is at once a wet bar of soap
crushed and lathering
between desperate hands, battling—
like General Custer—
unsuccessfully.

An elegant dive towards pavement,
free at last! bursting, rushing, trembling,
tumbling, thank God almighty,
tides of caffeine, flowing,
a cordless bungy suicide

or perhaps righteous free fall liberation?
The salvation sought in the swallow
could be, too,
in that very spread
insulting the wailing sidewalk

while the spiller’s hands
are curling away, white as foam,
vanishing into pockets and sleeves.

But what of the sprawl?

This hazelnut mess,
smatter of Brasilia’s best beans?

Will the rain, nature’s janitor, take care of this folly?

A piece of litter can be tossed, a doorstep swept,
a runny nose caught and put in time out.

But how long till it rains?
How long, screeches the sidewalk, till it rains?

Short Prose Piece

Stewart Island, Kapipi Bay, 2010, March 9

Very likely the manifestation of the word solitude. I have never been somewhere so quiet. My own words, as I often speak aloud, I respectfully swallowed. I can hear everything here--even little changes in the way the water is lapping at the rocks makes me glance up, wondering what creature has moved the rhythm of the bay. The only other noise comes from dueling birds, singing each other out of tree and nest. There are bright yellow spots on a rock--like mustard rust. Marigold time. That's what time feels like here--golden, frozen in bloom. The turn of this page resonates. I can hear myself blink. I can hear myself be. Stewart, how did your island come to be, or rather come to stay, so silent? Here, close to Antarctica, this patch of the end of the world more resembles the beginning, which would explain why I, in all my modernity, feel like such an intruder.

Vampires, Voyeurs, Exhibitionists

If no one's watching, what does it count?
A parade with no floats is a crowded street,
a mirror to a vampire, just glass.

Even a poet
--despite protest to the contrary (and there will be)--
lacking readers, is nothing more than a delusional English Major
left dusting off stacks of synonyms
to make more room in her study/office/den

For even onlookers
hope to be onlookees in some facet
we all need to be eyeballed
(by our own if circumstances are dire)
to fuel the grotesque need

to brand those shadow monsters of feigned dignity,
our silhouettes,
onto the spotlight

where once situated,
we can bark orders along the lines of...

all floats must process and exude campiness as expected
guffaw over syntax, tired professors and linquistic critics must
judge us! pet us! encourage us

to peek
over the edge of our vanities
and wait for the worst
our most fearsome,
our reflections