The Bicycle Ride

I sit in a small cafe,
Java Java, on Kapahulu Avenue.
It is squeaky clean.
The atmosphere has not in the smoke
or the sullen faces over strong brew.
There is some of this:
all latté and cokes.
all lads with funny hair
(a punk revival-- kinder
gentler punks-- I did this
in '86, and that was a revival)

kinder, gentler, punks

all lads with funny hair and chains
on their hips to hold their billfolds.

Rings in their noses
clean clean faces
fresh and tan
their limber healthy limbs
untouched by anything more than
a pack of
MARLBORO REDs

(hopefully this harmless
gang of hoodlums will start
singing something, this place is
driving me mad with quiet --
it's beginning to piss me off)

At eight o'clock
they finally begin to pick
a blues line guitar melody
punkers who play the blues
punkers who play the blues
blues harp and blues guitar
(complete with a steel slider)

A man plays blues guitar.
He wears chrome Elvis shades
they were dark.

He sings, "Take my worries down to the riverside."

Too much coffee gets on my nerves
Too much coffee gets on my nerves

I can't think very clearly
with all of this noise about.
There is such endless chatter
like ricochet like the old
hag on the bench in the park
with tangled gray hair talking
talking at her harem of grey pigeons.

My body is a watch spring wound too tight.

 

©1995 chris abraham