Peter V. Dugan


                For all the other poets at the WC Café  

She glared at me, flashed her ladybug alamode almond eyes and purred,            
                ”Fuck the Wylde . . . ,” her voice trailed off, the sound of a spurned lover.
She shook her head and continued,            
                “I need a couple hits of Colombian catnip to get me through days like these.”
She lit up a bowl, sucked it in, held her breath and let out a billow of smoke.
Her eyes were unfocused with a blank frigid stare and a silence, the kind of

                       silence that a clap of thunder cannot break.  

She then rattled off in a hazy stream of consciousness,
             “Where will we go? Where will we meet?
We are the members of a lost tribe, we gather to raise our voices in contempt at being
                condemned to the cultural gulag created by the unintended consequences
                                of living the American Dream.
Censored and censured by the Neolithic minds of the times, we shout out against

              willful ignorance and the outright hypocrisy of those that malinger in the
                                malaise and mayonnaise of mediocrity. 
We are the untamed and unchained barbaric bohemian bards of our times, wild
                and primal, raw and spontaneous, we are the illegitimate feral offspring of the Beats
hemmed in and stifled by the dead end existence spawned by father time and
                circumstance, and a mother of necessity and nature.”  

She stopped, took another hit and without exhaling sputtered,
             “Maybe, we should just shuffle and saunter down the side streets
                         and alleys of town.”
Smoke filled the room, but when the cloud cleared, she was gone, disappeared
                and the door left open to the black of night.

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