Finding himself walking his way down Pine behind much younger people and still hearing the silly laughter of a young date in an Escalade parking on the third level twenty feet away, he carried himself with a “Don’t ‘F’ with me” old guy chip on the shoulder attitude while feeling younger days lost. Something about that spot in downtown put him into a defensive, yet reflective posture these past two weekends out of three.
Finally, alone with his customary double shot of espresso and cool, effervescent Pellegrino in the green translucent bottle with just the right bit of bubbly feel in the corner of his mouth in a new corner of the hotel coffee shop having paid his $5.13 rent for this corner space, reaching into the corner of his brain where he kept such things, he began to write the poem of the week reflecting on his notes and getting a handle on his thoughts.
Sitting across from his former end table spot taking over a table for four near the door of the place which today of all days was the sunniest and unlike Florida coldest seat in the house, the door opening more often than usual letting people enter to find warm atmosphere and drink revealing the unseasonably seasonal cold snap of wintry winds, he began to write, on this, the third week of January:
Whether reading the lacustrine writings of our friend Thoreau
Or of the travails of travels of Bukowski’s Chinaski
Across the plains of alcoholic presenteeism.
After nights given to drink
And mornings to drink’s failure
To erase the pain or elucidate
Aeonian truths yet to be found in the writings of these
They call the literary greats.
His ludic approach to these sessions of playful reading
Might never open the doors of Truth
To an enlightened state of Beingness.
But he was willing to roll the dice, to play the horses
To spend more solitary time of the kind he craved
Reading and writing as the stuffs of his reading left
Their sitzmarks on his thoughts
And sometimes left their imprints on what some might call soul.
An expression that seems so much like nonsense
As if struggling out of an aposiopesis of wordlessness.
In the third week of January
A kerflooey of mixed thoughts of joy suppressed
Blended with a cornucopia of sorrow’s mixed remains leaving
Him speechless and at times
Longing for ______.
Handcrafted poetry by John Hines, 01/26/2016
This is the third in what might become a series of poems written using the 7 most previous, consecutive www.dictionary.com words of the day (http://coachhinesblogs.com/2016/01/09/words-please-him and http://coachhinesblogs.com/2016/01/15/sirens-of-predawn). This week’s words were: lacustrine, ludic, aeonian, kerflooey, aposipesis, presenteeism, and sitzmark. I am looking forward to next week’s challenge! Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed :).