Good Morning

As mid-afternoon arrives …

At the coffee house …

a homeless man sits in the back drinking water and coffee. Talking. Talking to a person who does not seem to be within the scope of reality. Looking to the ceiling, he is talking of being 73 years old. “If past behavior is a reflection of what I am doing now, why can not reason apply?” was his argument. “If I have never been a cattle rustler, it would seem to be that most likely, almost within intelligent reason, that I will not start being one now.” He then makes his argument to the ethereal judge and jury that, “If I have not hurt anyone by now.”

I am sitting, alone, in the back of the coffee house. Thinking of how fate has sent me down a troubled river of life. Somewhat to be stuck in a two year rapid eddie of confusion. The man’s argument with the angelic nothingness seems to move into the he is a veteran of some war department. Maybe vietnam? He is talking of the moral ethics of lying. “If you were in Nazi Germany, and an SS person asked you if you knew where the Frank family was hiding, would you tell a lie?” “Maybe i killed someone, it was the nature of being in the military.”

I almost speak to him but leave on a connection as if my nod was enough for this juncture. I go to this tavern for the quietness of not being known to may of the customers. The other coffee house is more like a bar. The same people sit on the porch everyday. Somedays, just to see the same people every day is strength enough to know the difference of being seen and unseen.

To be more descriptive of this mentioning of the Tavern. For years, a study of mine has been reading and listening to the words of a sufi mystic poet. The Tavern is a place where soulful dreamers meet to speak in sacred conversation. This poet, Rumi, the translator, Coleman Barks, the reason behind the work, Robert Bly, the mystical meeting that gave Coleman his literary license to translate, Bawa Muhaiyaddeen. This is the coffee house tavern metaphorical rendering of this prose.

I am talking to myself, in a little house next to a church, writing free verse on a social medium that would have given Guttenberg a run for his money! I am doing this for no other reason than to hear myself think. To mention a river of life, a hearts of darkness apocalyptical severing of self. This is not my first rodeo. Matter of fact, this is not me. Sometimes, i feel like a motherless child dreaming of rebirth, dreaming angelic voices.

Between two worlds, two coffee houses, two places to stare into the face of contemporary dystopian fear.

To smile at unknown faces. To continue down into the jungles of mind, spirit and body, knowing that at the end of journeying, will be that final test. The test of the hero, the fight to the finish. In the tavern we will meet, with language as shared experience, in a place where there is no darkness … if love is what you seek, keep seeking. A seeker after truth knows this Orwellian reference and knows the torture of not being allowed to speak freely of their deepest fears without the threat of isolated reprimand.

To make a choice between the seen and unseen. Eventually, the middle place becomes the point of all of this rambling. All of this so called connectivity is doing nothing. Putting nothing into motion. Into the digital realm. And isn’t this the danger of allowing something unseen to be in control of our narratives, vibrations and memories? What is seen, of a relative nature, an appeal to contemporary reason this manuscript may also be.

As much as I, you will have to also choose what is more profitable to you: the truth that you know, or the myth! And yes these are borrowed words, from an outkast jazz seeker, however, answer the question! At least try. The truth is said to be set in stone. So put that marker on the grave of ideals and an ever changing mission and vision. To speak of the myth, like my God mother used to say when questioned where she was going,

“crazy, you wanna go?”

In between two places, the tavern and the coffee house is the reality of sight and sound. About eight blocks of cityscape concrete jungle realty. The truth of the matter as of right now, be here now, I am alone. In a small house. A friend is letting me rebuild this reality that I speak of. To speak of first chapters, economy. Do we not borrow from others ideals and expressions? If, it is what it is, then, like a flow chart into words, sound and power, then follow the connective line into truth. Don’t get stuck there for too long or truth becomes doctrine. Render unto caesar as little as possible. I have chosen to stop feeding a beast. Chant down babylon, one more time. Dread beat dread.

A dance of chaos. Keep your head when everything around us in those eight city blocks makes thoughts in mind travel down realities of aggression, property ownership, competition, exploitation, disease, addiction. All of that is flowing these days in every stream of conscience. Liken a player piano roll, many of the hierarchical abuses are being rendered, and who is playing along? There seems to be no one behind the curtain. Some computer server in a cold climate, tied and chained together holds all our information.

Children these days dream images and ideals from screens. Adults, the sacred poor, all of us are victims of colonial forces. Is this truth? It is what it is, and that is the question. The human race seemingly on a suicide course,

a dangerous game of chicken with mother nature.

And could this be the new myth that many seers have suggested we need to create to survive? The old myth suggests the meek, shall inherit. Mother nature is a fine example of a mean queen given all power.

So, be it, soon come is now, her volcanoes, hurricanes, tornadoes all her faces of destruction are more terrifying, more damaging than the violence of us ants. Us humans and our righteous attempts at creation. Our fear based atom bombs are no competition to what is unseen. What is lurking in the darkness of space. The dance of scientific exploration into black holes, nothingness, no explanation but to keep faithfully reinventing myth.

Who are we without our story?

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