the coffee panic
newspapers, whiskey,
empty Kools, empty
coolness. I found it
very hard to breathe.
The forked honey
paints sad faces on paper plates.
The clean laundry is old
enough to be dirty. I am old
enough to be old.
A poetry and spoken word journal from a short Filipino man, misterjim.
the coffee panic
newspapers, whiskey,
empty Kools, empty
coolness. I found it
very hard to breathe.
The forked honey
paints sad faces on paper plates.
The clean laundry is old
enough to be dirty. I am old
enough to be old.
muddy waters and tatter tots
You pull the newbie therapist
aside at lunch. He’s a crumpled
collar with a fat lip. You tell
him about your hobby. He
doesn’t give a damn about
listening to the blues. If
he can sepparate hearing and
experiencing, he might have
a future as a therapist.
lighting fireworks in the rain
A meter maid is arguing
with a wool suit and briefcase.
The ticket is a fuse is a wet
blank blanket covering
windshield thoughts. Words
spark curses, spark reaction;
lightening strikes a parking
meter. Cloudy fingers
release the confetti downpour.

the spring motor under tension
The room is a music box of
limbs, hair,
and sweat. I watch
the bedplate, wringing wallflowers
out of my sleeve. When she makes
eye contact, I bite my comb. A punch
card borrows notes from the shy
part of the smile. I spill clumsy stutters--
there are no jewels trapped in the gears.
She turns, shadow marking her absence.
