The Alien with the Orange Teapot

Little Spud in the Big Apple

It’s funny,
I’m sitting in some coffee shop in Santa Fe,
drinking a house brewed kombucha,
scolding myself for the hipster tendencies
that crawl beneath my skin
like so many sub-dermal potato bugs,
or an old cough that won’t go away,
the remnant descendants of this season’s
Rhinovirus clinging to the edges of my esophagus,

Thinking about how we laugh at the hipsters,
the free thinkers,
the trend setters,
the Beta love weirdos,
the coffee shop indies,
when they’re the ones who
blaze the trail.

And I’m surprised
surprised within myself to see
so
many
aliens in New Mexico,

It’s funny that it surprises me,
I laugh out loud,
it comes out of me like a burp,
possible that it is a burp
caused by a cultured natural effervescence,
the tall man with the orange teapot
and blue
(or purple, I can never tell)
teacup looks at me,
He knows…

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