splendid moonlit summer night
Of the bright and silly sort
Winos and mayflies would die for
And the promise of some dreamt-up jen
Who’d peel me grapes and wipe my juicies
it’s show time at the paris cafe
Candles fiddle as shadows dance
And thin poets squeeze plump phrases
jens�?grapes into strung-out pearls
to stroke bereted and goateed ears
with jewels that float on stolen breath.
Its showtime at the paris café.
Pissed-off poets pace a tiger perp-walk
Spitting broken teeth
and glowing glass shards
That bloody ears and shred brains on impact
followed by hip pulpy pure poets
healing sounds of the inner spheres
It is showtime at the paris cafe
Then a pause a knowing wave
As steps into the quiet light
The dapper old snapper
This old ferry pilot all seersuckered
And aqua velvety quiet hushed all with words
A wistful lament an ode he began
It was magic at night at the paris cafe
To hardons he had when he was sixteen
How majestic they were stretched end to end
He missed it that crossing over to forever’s bend
By-gone Ferries and hardons poured black-and-white
Snapshots of me into me older coming
As he smiled he wanted one back, one more time.
ah those nights at the paris café.
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