Saturday morning serenade

by Ralkkai

I grind my own coffee beans
3-4 second bursts in
this little electric hand grinder
and I try to make the grind
as fine as I can without
heating out the oils
for my single-serve coffee maker.

I’m a very methodical type
of person.

My download folder on my computer is
never full
and I have separate folders
for my computer repair business,
my saved essays,
my photography,
and my programming
and web design exploitations.

My backup hard drive
has its own home made file structure

for fucks sakes.

My wife is a hot cluttered mess
and it drives me insane
but I love her

and I love her

as she snores symphonically
on the couch.

I spent the morning rebuilding the
proprietary video drivers
for my Linux machine
and this isn’t romantic.

I’m so systematic
that I feel only failure
when I write
my words come out
like beautifully
melodramatic blobs
or information on paper.

This isn’t poetry

I think to myself.

No one should ever like this
and if they do
they must be insane.

They must be the ones sleeping in rain gutters
and dancing and shouting in the middle of
the Streets of Paris
protesting and topless
on the news.

They must be
more screwed up than me.

But what if
this isn’t the case
you can be insane
on paper
in books
in coffee shops
in slams
in rhythm or no rhythm.

I had these things answered

People read me now
and for that I am thankful.
This poem isn’t for those people.
That one is still to come.
Thank you.