Beatnik Turntable…

I’ve sat within that crowded room.

Elbows, like the knobbed tree branches of a forest,

sway with mirth and freedom.

Yet, my heart lost its fire long before.

And as I sat, I sighed the rousing air

of the room with carouseling dancers,

and felt that no one was there; not even myself.


There are many things that solitude can inspire.

We desire what we can only hope to have again.

Yet, how lucky am I? I dream of things I’ve never known.

I see her hug his hip to her hip, whisper in his ear…

What did she whisper?

He will tell one dear friend,

and that friend,

will feel what I feel – a burst of elation, a drop of envy – a deadly cocktail.

And that friend will go on and wonder, “What if she were mine…”

And I know because I was that friend who tasted her in his words. And dreamed.

I dreamed until the dreaming kept me awake

until the dream cannibalized other dreams

until the dream put visions of her in the clouds

until the dreams, dreams, shattered-my-soul!


I was the one who told my friend about her.

I crafted her beauty and charm with such power to disarm, using my silken language,

and he tasted her essence in my words.

So, now I sit here.

I sit here in this room filled with carouseling dancers.

I can only sigh,

as I watch her dance.

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