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Slow Day at the Internet Café

Kathleen Minor

It occurred to me

in buffering meditative silence,

under eye of café Jesus candle,

that Lucifer was a poet

(don’t ask me why),

so perhaps the faint yet perpetual anxiety

I feel in the eye of

prism-stained colossus,

is justified.

Oh Sophia, oh Peter,

both beautiful and daunting

for if Bearer of Light

could rule hell

Bearer of Irreligious Poetry

has no chance.

So perhaps this “forced” abnegation,

separation, annexation,

un-medicated mental illness

with touch of insomnia,

call it what you will,

must be somewhat fitting

and justified,

as anxiety in the eye of

Señorita Libertad

is justified:

(v.) just, to justify,

to administer justice,

to declare or make righteous

in the sight of God,

like welcoming token

swinging under highway bridge,

like ravine-filler

in Babi Yar,

like charcoal

in Birkenau

is justified,

for I’m told the authority that exists

has been established by God

and rebellion is to

bring down judgment:

(n.) a decision of a court or judge

of character, separation

of church and state

of mind

and children.

I wonder if the children

in hell, Virgil led someplace else,

with the poets perhaps,

and Dante skipped over that circle,

right between wrath and heresy,

to give his friends a more private retirement

and Divine Comedy is

comedic by omission:

(n.) a group of words

or people, unwanted

a failure to act

by legal obligation

or morality.

Though why wonder when I could ask

Dante himself, or Virgil for that matter,

or maybe Whitman, or Ginsberg,

or Lennon

when I join them in Lucifer’s haven,

indie coffee shop maybe,

much like this one

us all workshopping while we munch

on pomegranate seeds like popcorn,

Dylan records scratching somewhere

in the flame-lit background,

or perhaps just my brain will join

since I likely won’t qualify

while God knows my brain belongs

if it’s not there already,

for it won’t shut up

and it feels like purgatory

when I stumble inside it

off guard or avant-garde,

thinking it will lend me something

to shock and provoke thought

and make jaws drop

while mine cocks

dénouement on the mind plots

til the brakes lock

façade drops

story stops

and lines rot

then here I’ll sit again,


probably self-medicated

(by this I mean vodka),

writing bad poetry with Candle Jesus,

waiting for Netflix to buffer.

Fall, 2018 Issue

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