Sunday, May 22, 2005
The Irish Starbuck's Guy. Named Joe, he spent his childhood in foster homes. His skin is Irish iridescent white. Hair red and shorn close to his skull. Joe's smile is a half-a-one and it melts. It was my friend who saved his hide. She took him in with a hug like she has done every living thing that has crossed her doorstep. Due to some unspoken experience, Joe hates blacks. His cropped hair, in fact, could be mistaken for a skin-head affinity. He will travel this week to Amsterdam to see the VanGough exhibit (and smoke good pot). First time on a plane. He writes poetry which will be hung next week at the local Starbucks. Whenever I go there and he is working, we chat. He is a delicious playa'. I sat in a lounge chair Sunday drinking coffee with a friend. After chatting, he came back with a hand-written sheet of a recent poem. To give to my daughter whom he craves? "I'm honored," I said. His Irish white skin blushed deeply crimson:
'Dissertation'
Scientists say trees
Are Necessary
For Man
To Breath
It's obvious
they've not studied
a voluptuous
Lady Lately
Mathematicians
Claim Perfect Circles
Do not exist
In nature
In response to this
I state with
Extreme Emphasis
What Idiots!
I added up every angle of her body
And the sum indeed
Turned out to be
Three Hundred and Sixty Degrees.
[I had him sign and date the hand-written paper. You never know...]
'Dissertation'
Scientists say trees
Are Necessary
For Man
To Breath
It's obvious
they've not studied
a voluptuous
Lady Lately
Mathematicians
Claim Perfect Circles
Do not exist
In nature
In response to this
I state with
Extreme Emphasis
What Idiots!
I added up every angle of her body
And the sum indeed
Turned out to be
Three Hundred and Sixty Degrees.
[I had him sign and date the hand-written paper. You never know...]
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