If a Table Could Talk
Posted: August 8th, 2008, 8:11 am
Candlelight was welcome routine
when the mango sun splashed
into its aquamarine bath for the night,
friends talking, laughing, smoking,
listening to byrds singing
about a tambourine man
and the possibility of following him
one day in the jingle jangle morning,
and the eagles sang too about standing
on the corner in winslow arizona
and a woman turning around
her flatbed ford to get a better look,
what a gang !....a witchy woman,
a desperado, and far too many
tequila sunrises to keep track of
as we always sang in unison
and we sometimes sang in key,
each colorful molehill of dripped wax
with its own special story, each stain
from spilled bongwater,
the hippie rorschach told an epic tale,
the burned marks, the dried pizza sauce,
the nightly christenings to a collaborative
piece of art to put a twinkle in the eye
of Jackson Pollack....we didn't need
no stinkin' coasters for bottles
of fire-brewed strohs beer or cans
of busch we nicknamed blue runners,
and conch shells made perfect ashtrays,
but sometimes we couldn't find them
and other times they were there,
but we couldn't see them, lost
in the haze of columbian and jamaican
smoke that curled in hendrixian jams,
and nothing could possibly replace
that big wooden cable reel discarded
by the utility company, ever clueless,
never missed, never accounted for,
never given its proper place
in the history of communal living.
when the mango sun splashed
into its aquamarine bath for the night,
friends talking, laughing, smoking,
listening to byrds singing
about a tambourine man
and the possibility of following him
one day in the jingle jangle morning,
and the eagles sang too about standing
on the corner in winslow arizona
and a woman turning around
her flatbed ford to get a better look,
what a gang !....a witchy woman,
a desperado, and far too many
tequila sunrises to keep track of
as we always sang in unison
and we sometimes sang in key,
each colorful molehill of dripped wax
with its own special story, each stain
from spilled bongwater,
the hippie rorschach told an epic tale,
the burned marks, the dried pizza sauce,
the nightly christenings to a collaborative
piece of art to put a twinkle in the eye
of Jackson Pollack....we didn't need
no stinkin' coasters for bottles
of fire-brewed strohs beer or cans
of busch we nicknamed blue runners,
and conch shells made perfect ashtrays,
but sometimes we couldn't find them
and other times they were there,
but we couldn't see them, lost
in the haze of columbian and jamaican
smoke that curled in hendrixian jams,
and nothing could possibly replace
that big wooden cable reel discarded
by the utility company, ever clueless,
never missed, never accounted for,
never given its proper place
in the history of communal living.
