Wednesday, January 30, 2008

The Cafe

Where is the café?’

This author wonders.

Is it in space, time, or any dimension?

Or is it in a little town in New England?


It matters not,’

This author decides.

In this café of wonders,

No one lives in any time or is any age.


There are many old and young men.

These men smoke.

From the primitives before Christ,

To the Indians, to the men of today they hail.


There is many a concerned anti-smoker.

These people are good.

The warn the smokers, but they do not hear.

If they choose to hear, one evil finger is raised above the rest.


Then there are young ones.

These children love trees.

They write and write without paper,

For they are of the future and are the future.


They cheer and have fun with their green things:

These things are good!”

But there are only a few.

Their infrared eyes and cyborg implants are outnumbered.


Some men and women gather together, paired.

These people are freely gay.

The others try not to notice.

The growing group, all in new clothes.


There was a large group of men and women.

These people were God-fearing.

The men were old, but dressed in new clothes and joined the alternate crowd;

The women dispersed.


Politicians are screaming from their corner.

These people are clueless.

The scream and pull stunts and acts, and pray,

But no one listens or seems to care.


The others grumble about the politicians.

These people are uncertain.

They ask questions, accuse, and point fingers.

They hear answers and ignore and forget.


Scientists are in their small, shrinking corner.

These people are great but unnoticed.

Some stand out, like this:


  • wig of curls and apple

  • paralyzed but smiling

  • two men walking in jubilantly

  • beard, canaries, and chimp

  • monk with peas


Poets and writers are gathered at another table.

These people are alone.

They scribble in their books at their table.

They are pretending not to notice the men that aren’t there anymore.


An AI is at another table.

This thing is alone.

But the circuitry and lights feel no loneliness; they are content.

They calculates and plays games and takes the writers away.


Some kids fool around at their table.

These children are foolish.

They know nothing and do nothing.

They are running around, not seeing the lion.


The lion is sitting there, getting angrier and angrier.

This lion is justified.

The fools have made him so.

They keep running and teasing blindly.


A girl or woman (no one can tell) sits alone at a small table.

This girl is different.

But not because her costume and body seem to be all one person,

Yet from different places, times, and ages!


Her hair is grey and her face hardened and grim.

Those eyes are filled with tears and pain.

Her legs thin and young, those of a small girl.

Her arms just as useless, but her fingers full of the magic!


Her right ear is tapered to a point, as an elf.

This left ear is not there.

Her body looks young under many sweatshirts.

Her skirt is like a sari of the East, but her head bears a tarnished silver crown.


Her left arm is clothed in a cape from the Dark Ages.

This other arm has a bandage, unnaturally red.

Her heart is visible on her sleeve, though she doesn’t like that.

It holds the passions and fears of an old one, but it carries few scars.


Her hands are filled and busy.

These hands are tired.

The fingers draw, write, cipher, and study theater and science.

A hand tries to cover the heart on her sleeve.


What do these fingers do best?’

This girl wonders.

Writing is loved, but science is longed for.

The girl reaches out everywhere, looking for a life.


She find others almost like her, but they have grouped.

That will not do.

She finds one very wonderful, but her eyes fill with tears.

She wants to stop searching, but can’t.


At last she has thrown down all in her hands!

These scatter across the table.

She picks them up again; writing, anything else salvageable?

She wants to see the one again.


Anger, fear, and sadness overcome shyness.

Can this happen?

Finally, she reaches for a knife in the café.

She’s ready to destroy her third finger of her treasured hand.


But she can’t, as she has known for a long time.

This causes change.

She ages again, and her clothes are from different eras again.

And it starts all over again, but only for her.


In the café, wherever it is,’

This author writes,

There are many people and lives.

The café rushes towards destruction, but it could stop.’


The café is so full of people,’

This author writes,

So many, but so few are good.

So few should be here, but they are all here anyways.’


Idiots run the world,

This is apparent.

Something must be done.

The girl can’t do it by herself.’


The girl glances around, and writes

This poem

And hands it to the one who can help; who can help finish this.

Help me edit this poem, please?”


*not part of poem*

I wrote this poem for DaBoss, but I believe in showing it to others. Disregard the last part, it's for HIM. :D

Um, yeah, that's all. Allegory.

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