Nighthawk Journals 1

I found some more old writing of mine dealing with cynicism in a diner setting.

I'm not sure if this predates "Nighthawk Observations" or not, but figured I'd throw them up regardless. It's not really poetry, per se, but I feel better putting them up under poetry than a "story" theme.

-----

The fluorescent light reflects harshly off every surface like a sun-bleached skull in a barren desert. Thick cup of softly steaming mud, the scent of coffee blends with the haze of smoke floating through the air. People watching in the diner. A great round man, like a swollen cantaloupe, slowly waddles inward to settle his bulk into a creaking chair at the counter. I wonder if it will collapse, surrendering finally to gravity? The waitresses flit back and forth like moths around a flame, calling orders to a cook who barks them back. Hashbrowns, hashbrowns. Over light. Burger and fries, bowl of chili. Another customer or two drift in, the regulars and those drawn by the neon sign promising, proclaiming “Good Food Fast!”

 

Hmph. I wonder if a refill on what passes for coffee here is out of the question.

 

The next shift drifts in slowly, reluctantly, signing their life away with the time clock. A flick of a Bic, spark another cigarette, the smoke wafting away only to be caught in the swirl of dry heat oozing from the vents.

 

And the clock ticks ominously forward as the nighthawks gather at their home away from home. They sit and squabble like seagulls over a piece of refuse. Solving the world’s problems, one smoke, one cup at a time. Or at least fooling themselves into believing what they spout, brief argument between arguments.

Wonderful. Now some enterprising soul thinks themselves a DJ, dropping coin after coin into the hungry maw of the jukebox, playing something only they will enjoy.  Hopefully just one “song” will blare tinnily through the blown speakers.

 

A shame, really, that rarely does any good music make its way onto these things. No music with feeling, only the mass-produced, soul-sucking cookie-cutter bullshit that corporate flunkies in suits pass off to the mind-numbed public, who, starved for real sound, ignorantly and eagerly accept anything bought and sold to the top of a “Top 40” list.

 

Same old, same old. New day, dame s**t, for all the nighthawks; those who roost and those only passing through tonight.

Reviews

[Emerald Seas]

A very observant view of 'normal' in a diner (or similar surroundings). The last few lines are quite sharp. There's an edge to seeing the world, this part of the world with a realistic eye.