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Open Mic June 2026 All you can eat
All You Can Eat
It was all-you-can-eat Mussels' Monday,
Vintage wallpapered, like we’ve all pulled down in age-ed apartments of our youth,
(College towns abound with mite-filled plaster-walled starter homes),
But we were older, pass that now,
And I sat and looked at that wallpaper,
Diamonds of turquoise outlined with gold Fleur-de-lis’,
Truly ugly, but magical in this hidey-hole restaurant.
Laughing,
eating mussels,
breaking the record of bowls ordered,
silly,
full,
and sinfully contemplating another round,
he said,
You know, I’ve been thinking about this lady I’m working with,
I think there’s more to it,
And I want to be open to pursue it.
He said that as I decided that the wallpaper was going to be permanently indelible in my mind's eye,
Just as the taste of garlic lamb wine sauce would smack of rejection,
Innocent mussels cut off the floor of the ocean, or riverbed, or wherever-the-fuck They lived their fucking-happy-lives
Before they came to bear witness to his
Emotional infidelity.
Not bound to her, under no obligation except friendship and the sharing of a bed
Winding down a 6 year love affair,
They had settled into a coupling
Monogamous and exclusive
Knowing he wanted to flee.
Time again his scorpion sting
Would make a break,
But grandiose ideals
Faded
And he’d return.
She’d take him back.
And they’d sit and watch Jeopardy by the artificial fireplace.
In the battery candles’ flicker,
The fruit flies’ flutter.
They’d sit in an embrace not sat before in all their geriatric years,
His arm around her
Her back against him
His hand cupping her breast
Without intentions,
Stomachs too full from a meal.
Here, though, tonight, with the mussel shells piled
The sauce glistening greasy on the dark wood table,
The concrete floor an abstract art in grey,
He said he had to see where it led.
She keenly took notice of the cold floor’s similarity
To the designer scarf
Around his neck.
Is there a way to let the air out of your soul so many times
That it no longer can be filled again?
Flaccid?
She came all the time.
Over and over,
The first man to ever do that,
Their lovemaking was thick and drenching
Never quite done,
An endless series of toss and tumbles
Until the time he said,
It’s not you it’s me.
You mean I'm not all the you’s, you need me to be?
So yea it is-----me?
Staring at hideous mid-century colors
Eating mussels my mid-century parents brought me up on
Being dumped by a mid-century born bald man
To pursue an un-shareable dream
No one has ever,
Been invited to dream.
Washes of Hues (Workshop Edition)
Washes of hues confuse
the binge of sound.
Noises in the head scrape
against the colors
in the brain,
the din maddening,
deafening the need
to think.
Thoughts rise undulating in her mind,
dancing tauntingly 'til
she can't take it anymore.
They did that.
They made her crazy.
They made her crazy
so that one night she just flew,
it wasn’t a long flight,
just a gesture to the wind
and she was gone.
Metronome of maestros
pound in her brain,
not-right-not-right
(take-flight-take-flight)
the hues can’t erase
the swirling water-tones
of pigment
she see inside her eyes,
sepia yellows, grayed blues,
shadows begging for a palette,
knife.
Sleep eludes, scrapes
the brain
washes tints to
form
the gone-ness of time
on the tempered paper
of her mind.
Sunset on the Intracoastal or Feeling My Place on this Rock of an Earth
I’m turning over backwards,
The earth a tilt away
From slipping the sun
Below the horizon.
As day is done
The earth is rolling back
Behind me,
I’m flipping like a tumbler
Sliding backward
Facing west
As the earth rotates
East
Towards night.
Sitting, in a backward facing chair,
I somersault in space
Watching the line of trees across the sound
Creep ever so much higher
As it takes the sun.
Variegated yellow,
Ombre orange along the bottom
Casting hints of tints of pink
Halfway across the water.
The blue and purples mix and play
Lapping on the oyster rocks,
Reaching tranquil,
Into the hue of twilight.
