Imaginary me

had the life of a writer

smoked a joint with disgruntle poets

who strummed a six string

behind Wednesday’s cul de sac.


I sat next to Bukowski’s ghost

rewriting – Alone With Everyone

watched two French women kiss

felt the sun breathing on my face

and heard one drunken poet ask,

‘Does anybody know?’

as if there was a prelude to the question

but we knew exactly what it meant

in the long silence.


Some of us went to Fifth Avenue

sat all the way in the back

as registers assaulted wallets

then made peace offerings with coffee.

I sipped mine slowly

to filter the taste from course grounds

not expected in these places

yet invited to aesthetics

in the scheme of living large.


But I’m not high

and haven’t swayed easily

in the center of moments,

these words are the laboring acts

of a sinner

that often leaves the fleshly chapel

right in the middle of a sermon.


© Tammy Mezera 2015

(Book-All In Unison)