I'm sitting here in this coffee shop. You know the one there by Allen street. The town is filled with thousands of middle class college kids living off their parent's money. 

The coffee shop is where the ones come to play the part of sophisticated bohemians . The pretensions glow from their line-less faces as they sip cappuccinos and chew strawberry cookies. The boys to my right are discussing Nabokov with a serious air, a copy of Sartre's Cuba lies on the table. 

The young woman on my left is declaring that she can never allow her creativity to be killed by entering the work force. The man with her scratches his goatee in agreement, occasionally suggesting they go back to his place to hear his new Washington Squares CD. Matt has just designed a new international symbol for peace. He moves from table to table trying to sell hand painted T-shirts that bear the design. Tomorrow he's leaving for the 25th anniversary Woodstock concert where he hopes to strike it rich with his creation. 

Gopha the skinny Indian boy feels like singing me a verse of 'It Ain't Me Babe' when I ask him if he's a friend of Monica's. Jason is trying to talk Gopha into a dollar bet on a game of chess. Between times Jason will chew your ear off with his plans to conquer the music industry while studying entertainment law, but when it comes to his never ending dollar chess matches he's quiet as a church mouse. 

I sit among them. To all surface appearances one and the same. If they could only see I would rather reach into their flesh and tear out their shallow little hearts than listen to another second of their prattle . 

With no job, no gigs, and my girlfriend's so far gone she might as well be on another planet, I've been leading the writer's quiet cafe life, spending my free time outdoors drinking iced teas and cheap wines. I chat warmly with whoever decides to squander away their hours in my surrounding area. 

But behind my eyes is an unspoken challenge to any and every one of these social elites to just once say one thing that would inspire me. Just one little idea which is new and meaningful. Unfortunately original thoughts are zero here. 

In my secret mind I wish to run like a madman banging gongs and speaking in tongues. Or maybe jump on a table and sing the Star Spangled Banner in the forgotten language of the Hottentots. I know these thoughts only reveal me as a fool because the spark I search for cannot be found in acts of shocking performance art. Where it truly comes from is one of the mysteries which will always hang around me.
Where is he at?
Where is his girlfriend?
What is he searching for?
What does he do?
Who is the town filled with?
What are those doing?
What part are they playing?
Why will the woman's creativity be killed?
Where is Matt going?
Where is he going tomorrow?
Why?
What would he rather do?
Who sings a song?
What does Gopha do?
What is Jason studying?
What are the boys talking about?
What lies on the table?
What kind of thoughts are not happening there?
What street are they near?
Is he working?
in the coffee shop
in this coffee shop
so far gone
so far gone
the spark
the spark
He is a writer
writer's quiet cafe life,
thousands of middle class college kids
 thousands of middle class college kids 
living off their parent's money
 living off their parent's money
sophisticated bohemians
sophisticated bohemians
by entering the work force
 by entering the work force
from table to table trying to sell hand painted T-shirts that bear the design
 from table to table trying to sell hand painted T-shirts that bear the design
the 25th anniversary Woodstock concert
the 25th anniversary Woodstock concert 
he hopes to strike it rich with his creation
he hopes to strike it rich with his creation
run like a madman banging gongs and speaking in tongues
 run like a madman banging gongs and speaking in tongues
the Hottentots
 the Hottentots
he feels like singing me a verse of 'It Ain't Me Babe'
y feels like singing me a verse of 'It Ain't Me Babe'
entertainment law,
entertainment law,
a game of chess
 a game of chess
a copy of Sartre's Cuba lies on the table
 a copy of Sartre's Cuba lies on the table
original thoughts
 original thoughts
Allen street
 Allen street
No
With no job, no gigs, and my girlfriend's so far gone she might as well be on another planet, I