Heaven Threw Up

Best of the Boards
Steve Herron


Eggshell white china cup
made in Thailand
spidered with threads
stained chestnut
by cinnamon-apple tea
and coffee
cradled in unlined hands
caressed by fingers
tipped with bitten nails.

And the cream plunges
to the bottom and then
mushrooms up the sides
to feather the black liquid
like cirrus clouds illuminated
by a full winter moon

Swirling like the Matisse lettering tattooed
on her wrist, heaven threw up
a misinterpreted lyric
from youthful dreams of angst
and posed personality.

The grunge grown-up
now sits Midwesternized
by the autumn sun
that shadows the nurtured cup
onto polyurethane plywood
as the steam rises
and dissipates
into the flavored air
of the Caribou Coffee Shop
as she sits gazing beyond the window.

pencil

Steve can be reached at mrherron2[at]bignet.net.

East Town, Grand Rapids

Poetry
By Steve Herron


The crimson bricks of the East Town streets
glisten in the still summer air
washed fresh of the day’s humidity
by a late afternoon shower

a white dreadlocked pedestrian
steps over puddles collected in the depressions
near crumbling granite curbs
created by time and idling Arcadia Ale delivery trucks

they line up, an eclectic group
of Caucasian rastas wrapped up in Jamaican-colored pride,
neo-hippies in print skirts and hemp pants,
walking billboard college clones,
and those holding on to some fading time,
like school kids waiting to board a bus
at the corner of Wealthy and Lake Drive

the line snakes from the entrance
of the aging cinnamon bricked Intersection bar
with smoke-colored windows wall papered
with flyers advertising
Domestic Problems, Mustard Plug,
and 19 Wheels wsg Liz Larhin (from Detroit)

it ends down the block
where the smell of Yesterdog’s mingles
with fresh Brazilian coffee
as the faint murmur of voices
of young poets and wanna-be philosophers
carries across the street
as they engage in conversations
attempting to be as deep and lasting
as the cold of Lake Superior
and as illumines as a full-mooned night sky
unfettered by city lights

Kerouac would not be jealous

daddy’s BMW slows to a stop;
inside four fresh faced prepped beauties
from East Grand Rapids or Ada
giggle and encourage the brave brunette
to ask him, “who’s playing?”

“Karmic” floats in a sweet clove cloud
of Djarum Black smoke that hangs
and then slowly dissipates
into the graying evening air

they drive off laughing
and he joins the disheveled line
catching the hint of jasmine
(much better than patchouli oil)
from the Stevie Nicks goes punk
looking girl whose raven hair matches
the Vietnam combat boots
and contrasts nicely with the flowing
ghostly laced dress

the black cast iron street lamp,
designed to look like it’s been around since the early 1930s
(or maybe it has),
casts a glow that highlights the
psychedelic rainbow swirling
in a nearby puddle

he smiles at the thought
that soon he will join the ghost,
the twirling print flowers and paisley
and the bearded hemp hippies
in a Phish-style float on the dance floor
that may look, to the billboards drinking
their lackluster amber American lagers,
like a Fantasia dance of mop handles.

pencil

Steve lives in the north metro area of Detroit, Michigan and finds that his insomnia provides him with time to write. He can be reached at mrherron2[at]bignet.net.