Shouting identity in a storm
as a neurotic phantasm
through the friendly village
leaving shattered trees,
in its wake and a peeled
factory roof in traffic.
The power went out.
Rude awakening,
turning on the microwave,
then the bath light,
-- five minutes later.
(Oh that's right, the power is out.)
Then the T.V.
Oh shit!
"I want a hot cup of coffee!
I am a freelance writer!"
It has to be somewhere
past the whimsical discussion
around the Lexus crushed
by a fallen tree,
past the road blocked by
a fire truck and cop cars
twirling blue lights,
cops smiling balloons
at stupid questions,
pointing the way to
the main drag toward
The Square and the smell
of coffee maybe.
The Square is grey
without power,
neon signs sans
the hosing of electrons
cling to wilted walls
as if planet Earth was
falling into the sun.
But,
then there was Light.
Business as usual at
Panera Bread where
serious faces were glaring at
laptops with neglected mugs
of coffee steaming
dark roasted souls out
into the thin firmament
not offering resurrection.
Finally! A mug of coffee
with an "everything" bagel
and a tin of hazelnut cream cheese.
At last! The detached view
of the storm tossed milieu
ensconced in the House of Reason,
where the optimum school
lunch menu is structured by
the virtual office employee
working off site taking
avian sips of dark roast,
stealing glimpses of Sumatran mists
while the ghosts of
Juan Valdez and Mrs. Olson
lurk faintly over the shoulder.
The kids should get
eight ounces of carrots on Wednesday;
a good fit in the dietary rainbow,
lurid orange in between
string beans and the yellow vegetable
before Friday's okra ends up
in the trash.
The comparative evaluation of
employment longevity statistics
for insurance raters with
just two years of college
is considered virtually
two tables away.
"I am a freelance writer!"
The sky darkens
to charcoal black and hail
batters the parked late model
sedans. The virtual office
is unmoved in its mission
as a tornado touches down
in the residential area,
flinging a five ton oak tree
to a shocking altitude
into a littered bedlam of sky,
its broken branches guiding
it's trunk as the fins of
an inbound cruise missile
toward The Square,
with roots flailing about
as the grasping hair of
an intelligent vagina,
then falling on the line
of late model sedans
parked at Panera Bread.
Heads turn from laptops,
with the collective sigh
of a drooping violin section,
synchronous pairs of eyes gaze
with the sobriety of geese
then blink
at the wanton destruction
of the beloved sedans now
crumpled as aluminum cans
to be recycled.
Information is processed
with the Panera perspective.
Total loss.
Transportation?
Life will go on.
An associate replaces
coffee pots and logs
entries on the erasable
"just brewed" freshness cards
for dark roast, light roast,
decaf, Sumatra.
"I am a freelance writer!"
Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 1075 times
Written on 2013-06-16 at 21:09
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The Panera Perspective
A whirlwind racedas a neurotic phantasm
through the friendly village
leaving shattered trees,
in its wake and a peeled
factory roof in traffic.
The power went out.
Rude awakening,
turning on the microwave,
then the bath light,
-- five minutes later.
(Oh that's right, the power is out.)
Then the T.V.
Oh shit!
"I want a hot cup of coffee!
I am a freelance writer!"
It has to be somewhere
past the whimsical discussion
around the Lexus crushed
by a fallen tree,
past the road blocked by
a fire truck and cop cars
twirling blue lights,
cops smiling balloons
at stupid questions,
pointing the way to
the main drag toward
The Square and the smell
of coffee maybe.
The Square is grey
without power,
neon signs sans
the hosing of electrons
cling to wilted walls
as if planet Earth was
falling into the sun.
But,
then there was Light.
Business as usual at
Panera Bread where
serious faces were glaring at
laptops with neglected mugs
of coffee steaming
dark roasted souls out
into the thin firmament
not offering resurrection.
Finally! A mug of coffee
with an "everything" bagel
and a tin of hazelnut cream cheese.
At last! The detached view
of the storm tossed milieu
ensconced in the House of Reason,
where the optimum school
lunch menu is structured by
the virtual office employee
working off site taking
avian sips of dark roast,
stealing glimpses of Sumatran mists
while the ghosts of
Juan Valdez and Mrs. Olson
lurk faintly over the shoulder.
The kids should get
eight ounces of carrots on Wednesday;
a good fit in the dietary rainbow,
lurid orange in between
string beans and the yellow vegetable
before Friday's okra ends up
in the trash.
The comparative evaluation of
employment longevity statistics
for insurance raters with
just two years of college
is considered virtually
two tables away.
"I am a freelance writer!"
The sky darkens
to charcoal black and hail
batters the parked late model
sedans. The virtual office
is unmoved in its mission
as a tornado touches down
in the residential area,
flinging a five ton oak tree
to a shocking altitude
into a littered bedlam of sky,
its broken branches guiding
it's trunk as the fins of
an inbound cruise missile
toward The Square,
with roots flailing about
as the grasping hair of
an intelligent vagina,
then falling on the line
of late model sedans
parked at Panera Bread.
Heads turn from laptops,
with the collective sigh
of a drooping violin section,
synchronous pairs of eyes gaze
with the sobriety of geese
then blink
at the wanton destruction
of the beloved sedans now
crumpled as aluminum cans
to be recycled.
Information is processed
with the Panera perspective.
Total loss.
Transportation?
Life will go on.
An associate replaces
coffee pots and logs
entries on the erasable
"just brewed" freshness cards
for dark roast, light roast,
decaf, Sumatra.
"I am a freelance writer!"
Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 1075 times
Written on 2013-06-16 at 21:09
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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