Musician and throw-back alike were besieged by the Demon of the Blue Flame. In this once known haunt of the Hunchback of Our Lady, the surreptitious beast puts to shame the formerly poetic stricture ‘trailing clouds of glory.’
Ray, the nominal host, was off in the corner praying to the Ghosts of the Four Winds; hoping to catch one of the famous blonde sisters backing into him.
Some fucking gerbil’s on the carpenter’s podium exorting us to examine the nuances of his infinitesimal cleverness or her simply radiant stream of socially conscious clichés.
Plutonium odes and fools’ gold for which there is no cure, but a trapdoor I could work at my own discretion.
Imagine… just a hint of some bunghole tweeter about to philosophize, and plop!
straight through the real stage door.
A coffeehouse, café as society…“Acid wit, deep insight, humor, powerful metaphor, intelligence…. A smooth ride on a bumpy road, with side trips into unseen hollows of the human experience…. What else do you need to know?” Get it.
An excellent read, worth sharing far and wide… More, please….”
Prose poems that are a paean to Musicians, Writers, Artists, & Wingnuts: to folksingers, the troubled and disturbed, open mic nights everywhere.
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from FAT ALBERT’S OUTPATIENT FOLK CLINIC} [Fat Albert’s is a very real coffeehouse in Toronto, Ontario. Famous for having had Gordon Lightfoot, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, etc perform on its premises, it is still operating.]