Subsonic All Stars

Woke up chewing on an organic
beer can after
an evening with the poets
70 foggy miles up the coast from here
my Yater t-shirt, my St. Christopher
medal, my sunglasses, my tattoo
& my poems
probably all that hold me to this world
plus other less obvious perhaps inventories
no doubt explicit by omission

Pamela sleeps in the other room
I sip at half a cup of coffee
my friends are all far away, living lives I
don’t understand & only partly believe

& the poem continues to spill off the page
a   b   c   d   e   f
7 million crooked typewriter keys
because I cling to certain retro habits
knife & fork, pen & paper, the
faded signature

trapeze clouds

steam-driven guitars