Friday, August 15, 2008

Allen's Brain's Poetry Closet

Speaking of coffee... (the St Espressus lament still being fairly fresh) I dug through the musty, dusty archives of the lab's poetry closet, and came across a selection from my Brain's beatnik poetry phase. So put on some swinging bebop jazz, Hipsters and Hipstresses. Get out your bongos and don your berets as you dig this Allen Ginsberg-esque tribute to the beverage that is the most!
*****


Coffee-Driven Stream-of-Consciousness Beat Poem Composed on October 03, 2000 that’s Almost as Interesting as its Title
by the walking coffee disposal that is Allen Z'brain

Coffee. Dark, rich, bitter, espresso coffee bites into my brain at first sip.
--Biting, sinking its teeth into my gray matter: a caffeinated rottweiler.
--Sinking its fangs in, slicing through the dull fog of my mind.
--Biting, slicing, dicing, like some new Ron-Co dental hygiene device guaranteed to make the experience more painful for the patient for just $19.95 plus the pocket fisherman if I act now.
--Cutting away at the dullness like the third chisel broken on a too-hard pumpkin refusing to be a jack-o-lantern; settling for an orange-ish rendition of the head of Michelangelo’s David; looking more like an Easter Island statue carved from orangey-yellow marble. I knew I should have cleaned up that case of Miracle Grow I spilled in the pumpkin patch.
--Biting, chewing at the dullness of my thoughts like a college professor trying to mold young students’ minds at 7:30 A.M. on Monday.
--Cutting, chewing, masticating the neurons; having a little effect now and then, like an astounded girlfriend eating bachelor cooking for the first time and seriously contemplating becoming an ex-girlfriend.
***

A second sip, and ideas begin to flash within my skull–occasionally actually in my brain.
--Ideas flashing like an exhibitionist in Central Park on what would have otherwise been an extremely pleasant spring day–made more comical by the fact that he was wearing black socks.
--Thoughts blinking, flashing brightly in my head–frightening the neighbors and even more unsettling after nightfall.
--Blinking, flashing like the strobe lights at the discotheque that I went to and didn’t dance, too absorbed in conversation with the fascinating European girl who didn’t speak any English except that phrase that sounds beautiful on any woman’s lips – "More Coffee?" I was head-over-coffee-mug in love. Romance blooming--until her boyfriend showed up and threw me out on my ear, only to drag me back inside to throw me out on my other ear.
--Concepts flashing; ideas blinking on-and-off, on-and-off inside, like the red and blue lights atop the highway patrol car that chased me up I-55 til he collided at 100+ mph with the bridge’s concrete retaining wall. Tickets-that-would-never-be incinerated in the ensuing explosion, carbon souls ascending to citation heaven. It was a truly beautiful explosion, like the explosion in my brain when I take yet a third sip.
***

Thoughts now crackle, vibrant electrical neuronic impulses. Stand in the bucket of water and hold the red wire that is thought!
--Ideas crackling, snapping like autumn leaves beneath my feet whilst I imagine myself as Godzilla raiding Tokyo, ’til they come up with an even more high-tech and even less-plausible method for getting rid of me.
--Snapping, crackling like the vertebrae of that mime that I hit with my Buick –(he fell in the forest and didn’t make a sound) and no one noticed--except for two old geezers playing chess nearby, who rose to their feet in applause, only to become victims themselves of vehicular homicide–can’t leave any witnesses. Best watch your own back, now.
--Popping, crackling like the small campfire that I was careless with and which ignited the massive three-state forest fire which chased the wildlife out of their native habitats, causing bears to take up residence in poorly kept-up nursing homes and packs of wolves to continue their hunt of the herds of deer, elk, and caribou in a local football stadium which makes them a much easier target, but they were going to starve to death anyway, unable to graze on the AstroTurf at the fifty-yard line.
--Synapses snapping, crackling, popping like an entire box of Rice Krispies being flushed down the toilet in a moment of childish curiosity, driving to madness the plumber I soon hired, causing him to jump from the window of my first story apartment and sprain his ankle–now he hits me with his crutches every time he sees me.
--Oh cruel fate of creativity!
--Oh bane of the mind which will not sit idle!
--Popping, (ideas) snapping, crackling with energy as the thoughts flow down the dilapidated corridors of my mental hospital. (I’m now somewhere in the midst of sip number five–the fourth one entirely forgotten in the euphoria of the moment–and soon I’ll need a refill! [Words of a disgruntled postal worker midway through his first clip of the morning.])
***

Ideas. Concepts. Oozing. Flowing. Flowing through my mind like complex theological platitudes through the brains of seminarians at two in the afternoon; not at all unlike rainwater passing through the hollow heads of gargoyles perched atop cathedrals before cascading forth from stone mouths fixed in lurid sneers, but not before being tainted by the pollutants on the roof and in the rain gutters–amazing how dirty the tops of churches can be!
--Concepts flowing freely through my brain. Freely flowing like hair growing on the back of Ed Asner.
--Flowing like the puddle of spilt coffee spreading across the surface of the table, until I licked it off when no one was looking.
--Flowing swiftly like lava down volcanic slopes – glowing orange river headed for certain destiny to immolate the fat slug fleeing--in an appropriately sluggish fashion--in the opposite direction for its dear yet pitiful life, experiencing the short-lived joy of escape as it lies dissolving on a pile of table salt someone had spilt on the ground earlier that day, only moments before being overtaken, silvery trails shriveling, igniting, being absorbed into the molten torrent so as to later become the mysterious dark speck on the basalt paper weight sold in a tourist trap souvenir shop somewhere in the state of Washington, a poignant illustration of the meaninglessness of life.

Refill, please.

2 comments:

HMSnow said...

This is the point at which the barrista says, "I think you've had enough," and takes away your car keys.

Allen's Brain said...

She can try, but my hands are usually shaking pretty badly by then, and so the keys would be hard to grab. On the other hand, everyone else in the shop hears the jingling and thinks Christmas came early this year.