Charlie

Sally laughed and
freaked and shrieked
when he said it

Eddie’s eyes popped
out of his head
when he said it

Did you know his
real name was
Charlies Claverie

And he went to art school
with Gus Van Sant
and David Byrne

Did he know when he said
that word
it would mean
an end to late-night writing

riffing and inter-cast fighting

an end to the spotlight haze
Goodbye to Saturdays.

Sally laughed and
freaked and shrieked
when he said it

Scribble

Some books you keep for
the inscription, not for the book.

The spine on your shelf
reminds you of the moment
they gave you that present,
the feeling of something landing
when you opened it later that night.

I mean, Herman Wouk is not your thing.
Never became your thing.

But you can see the spine now, sometimes
open the book itself
and picture their hand floating over the page

scribbling an idea into words that
stick around, along with a book
you’ll most likely
never read.

Now Available: The Lavender Lemonade Is Back

Hi all,

I wanted to let you know that a collection of my poems and stories is now available on Amazon in print and kindle!

I thought I’d reshare the title poem here, which was originally about the joy of lemonade and coffee shops. Over time it became about other things that go away and come back — like creativity. But these last few weeks, it’s become about missing lemonade and coffee shops all over again. Ah, lemonade and coffee shops.

Best!
-Cecil

The Lavender Lemonade Is Back: Poems and Stories
The Lavender Lemonade Is Back: Poems and Stories

The Lavender Lemonade Is Back

The lavender lemonade is back
at my local coffee shop.
I’d given up on her.All the lemon factories, moved off-planet.
“We Thank You For Your Business.”Empty cups, traced with
mint and cane.I’ve been lost
behind the
lost
behind the
dark berry side of this Lavender Moon.
Here comes the lemonade.

Chicken Apple

Eating a
chicken apple sausage
is like eating a
chicken sausage

while some guy pokes
little pieces of apple
in my mouth.

And I’m like hey:
just let me eat this
chicken sausage, mister.

The gift of boxes

An underrated skill. The ability to
enjoy the sky,
a perfect book

a wonderful chat

a cup of tea,
if that’s your thing.

Not a case of denial.

Just watching the news, making plans
and then taking out your boxes.
These ancient things.

“Look at him. Look at her,” they might say:

“Check out that outstanding
compartmentalizer.”

Write what we know

Wondering about
all the quarantine screenplays
that are being written right now
in smallish spring apartments with
open windows where
people perhaps don’t bother
zipping up their flies as
much as they
normally would.

The romcoms sure about falling in
love on Zoom, but also
the quarantine buddy comedies the
online detective stories the
psychedelic misadventures the meditative spiritual
wonderama’s the Judd Apatow-produced
off-color with a heart of gold
guy and gal night outs without
actually going out the
all in one day coming of age
teen true stories the castaway
remakes with a basketball because that’s what was on hand
and the turners.

and the hooches.

“Rotting frame” (take 1, for Nonny)

The line that gives way over time
to oxygen and new molecules, bumbling about

That softens delineation with a hand that jumps

That leaves smudgeframed, then unframed a thing you asked to live inside a rectangle
(“hey, won’t you please live inside this awesome rectangle?”)

Until that frame is zap-gone and that thing is just out there, unframed
fighting its own good fight against lots of seconds, occasional humidity, and a light breeze

that same light breeze

it’s always that same dang
light breeze.

“Rotting frame” (take 2, also for Nonny)

as a thing that deserves extra meaning, how could
we use this phrase and you’d all follow? Such as:

“My head today, and your voice. My head, that rotting frame…”

and you’d know we meant the lines were shaky,
there was too much give and

you were breaking in
while I was away

and drinking tea with all my
tea cups.