word magician

Smokey, dim lit café
some beatnik thinking he's got something to say
a bass, a snare both keeping a beat
decaffeinated patrons wishing
they could dine on poetry.

Alligator shoes and trips to Sing Sing
won't bring you any closer to New York
Haven't you heard?
They lost two towers and now airplanes
will not supply you forks.

I've ordered a glass of Masi
while waiting for a word magician.
He once made words float around a room
I left the window open
They flew about
Wine was spilled
The scene combusted
I left in disguise
and smoke got in my eyes
they turned into glass spheres
music left my ears.

The beatnik is dressed in black
probably morning the loss of Amiri Baraka
whoms bones have lost their rhythm
sanctified and purified
by stupefied beauticians.

Last sip of wine and my magician friend
enters the poetic bar
Wipes his feet and takes a seat
beside the brunette in black
(that's me in camouflage)
Bottle of Masi, he's looking snazzy
His set's at a quarter to ten.
That's when he takes the stage
becoming a sage
a prophet for the disillusioned crowd.

The beatnik finishes by saying we're slaves
His outlook on life is solemnly grave
Next on the program – musical guest
So, Leonard Cohen takes a seat
and plays Famous Blue Raincoat.

The word magician and I drink wine, discuss, secretly plan
while Leonard finishes by singing Suzanne
It's twenty to ten, word magician takes stage
Opens his notebook and begins his rhythm
The faltering crowd is electrified
when the words he speaks are magnified
even Cohen pauses from drinking his whiskey
to take note of the intellectual gypsy
who speaks in poetry.

I stare at the candle illuminating my table
and from out of my eye, clearly can see
a room full of literary menagerie
words are flying on untamed wings
a deja vous from an old you and me
I am the only one who has dined on poetry before
and tonight, the other's are having a morsel.