Cafe Cream Poem by Butch Decatoria

hmph... where are the open mics?
This coffee-bean bag city abound
with eclectic fusions of wireless access
enter-the-net -abilities
Kenya to Columbia / slow, dark roasts...
and Napa Valley vineyards
intermingling
at Cream...
How oddly bright, surrounded by glass
windows- like discovery of x-ray vision,
through clear walls i see how packed
like an iMac convention it is
inside...
Poetry readings: Yahoo local search directed us here,
barista-scented alcoholic webmasters
thin-legged tables laid out like a life-sized
chess board- us three white rooks performing
black bishop moves to the cashier;
curious like George as to where
in Carmen-cool-San Diego,
in this glowing Rubix cubed place;
where in the fluorescent skins of Comp-USA borne
peoples of the web, where
where oh where's the poetry?
Reading Vista-windows rather than obsolescent-absolutes
of books by Keats
or obsessive-compulsive Koontz...
Though bright and machine-warm, Cream
felt metallic-shiny, slick as plastic; conversations
with an electric hiss
rather than a hum of heart-beats and laughter
where's the darn poetry? ?
the readings?
a prolific geek or Hemingway refined older men
on a single microphone;
turn-table-tales in rhyme
on a platform made by the local grind
college theatre techies (staple-gunned and glued) ...
where are those poets?
those spoken-word-wisdoms, writers
performing, even in their Goth-blacks, even in
their Seattle angst of corduroys or dock martins;
forget Starbucks, leave behind Jitterz,
the Expresso Roma is the poetry of coffee
no enterprise
can replicate
duplicate the unique...
sadly i must concede, the spoken word
and poetic fluffers are a dying breed; as far as
i can web-surf, no place
houses them any longer, no more
do they sprinkle their pixie-dust of verse
or prose, mosaics,
fantastics of floral or funk
imagery and emotional
stark revelations of discovery...
sadly- it is the day's turning of a page;
sucks is the word,
adverb to lost horizons, i am
a dinosaur of the mess-no-beatnik-era,
"poet-a-sore-is-rest"
deep thoughts' ooze now the blood of
{fingers snapping} history
"yeah, man, cool...outta sight"
and i'm not yet extinct;
i am a tetradactyl with so much sky
soon without a place to land, / below
crash into the matrix sea- Cream pixelates my woes...
communication has become a plastic factory
to Japan, and Europe, my inner "screech! "
"where is the poetry? ! "