Hosting tuesday

I walk in the back door of the kitchen to the little bistro.

Announcing hellos to the line and the singing chef.

“What are we going to do today, Casey?” the chef asks me.

“Same thing we do everyday day, Hector. Try to take over the world,” I reply.

He resumes his singing in Spanish.

Ponchito sings harmony.

~

The Beach Preservation Busy Body Society is buzzing on coffee at 10:00 a.m.

“Thanks for asking, Judy. Not great, but I’ve switched to Metamucil,” says Jeanie, still recovering from hip surgery, amongst other things.

“Perseverance!” says Judy.

~

I start a fresh pot of decaf. I snatch up the urn of caffeinated, good stuff (Tony’s, Songbird blend).

I go around warming up people’s morning cup as a priest pouring sacrament.

Paul, an ex-New York state prosecutor, is holding court at table one. A two top right by the window.

“What the hell are you doing at this table?!” I tease.

He never eats at Table 1. He does breakfast at table 6 when playing chess and he does his business lunches at table 21. Both in the back, albeit opposite sides of the dining room. Table 21 is in the bar. Table six is not.

“Well, I figured if I sat up by the window, I’d attract people in for you,” he says.

I don’t recognize his companion, but after five months I know Paul well enough to say, “You are a pretty thing.” Turning to his companion, I say, “He is, right?”

The man squirms; Paul cracks up.

“He usually eats there or there,” I say motioning directly. “Fancies himself something of a local celebrity,” I add, walking off.

~

Coffees warmed, tables reset, and empty plates cleared, I perform my morning ablutions: sweeping the front mat in the entryway, cleaning the glass free of sticky smudges from syrupy fingers.

Showing the nearly hundred year old building extra love and attention.

It’s all in the details, innit?

Polished brass and dusted, wooden ledges.

Thriving atherium.

Persevering.

~

I sweep the outside mat, leading directly off of Main Street.

“Hey, it’s the auctioneer,” one of a pair of joggers says.

The locals finally accept me.

The line to the bistro regularly overflows onto the high street.

I usually run a waiting list by ten a.m.

The best system I’ve uncovered is to yell from the sidewalk:

Table for so-and-so going once.

Table for so-and-so going twice.

Table for so-and-so SOLD to the next party.

It is a pragmatic thing.

For when that absentee party I called, invariably returns, angry that their table has been given away, I have multiple witnesses who will enjoy laughing and saying, “Oh, she tried to call you.”

The other jogger notes the unfilled dog bowl we leave out.

“You need to put water in that,” says Jogger two.

“Why? You feeling thirsty?,” I think, but do not say.

Perseverance, right?

~

I slowly reset table four in order to better eavesdrop on table three’s conversation.

What writer doesn’t revel in moonlighting as a thief of the conversations of others?

“She never asked me not to leave,” he says.

“Didn’t you say anything?” she asks.

“No. It wasn’t my place.”

I overhear

I think

Persevere.

Talk of weather

“Sunlight yesterday; dreary today,” he says.

I tease, “Oh, stop with the dismal diablerie, cad. It’s not gloomy. It’s simply a winter gloaming.”

“That’s not what I meant”, he says.

“Oh, I just thought you were awful fond of talking about the weather,” I panto, innocently.

” ‘Awfully’,” he mumbles.

“You are awfully fond of talking about weather?” I giggle, in mock with brown eyebrows arched.

“No. You meant to say ‘awfully fond’. Adverb not the adjective,” he says.

I howl in laughter, “Be careful telling me what I ‘meant to say’; because, you have no idea what I intend.”

~

There once was a boy.

And, there he was until he became.

He held himself still. Held fast and listened.

There did he discover he was himself

all over again.

She smiles, unobserved, from the corner.

struck by sunlight.

The backside of the house was struck by sunlight following a cloud burst’s clearing.

Casted like spells looming, the pair of old trees guarding the home’s back door entryway, conjure a pair of ancient shadows, saying:

“We were planted nearly a hundred years ago. We saw it all. The doctor and his wife, first. They planted us as they built their shelter above the groping outpouring of our subterranean root structure,” says tree i.

“We saw him deliver the daughter right out of his own wife’s belly. Right next to the butler’s pantry. Midwife present to mediate the metaphysical nuances of old-timey, natural, live births,” says tree ii.

“He was the only doc in town, see,” ads tree i.

“And, we saw that daughter raise her children here, just as she had been raised above our roots,” says tree ii.

“And, though you bring us nothing but you, a lonely homesteader, we see how you learn to erect the ether of your own root’s structure,” says tree i.

“Yes, discovering the dimensions of your pyramide before constructing,” tree ii.

Build your radix for me, priapus.

Show us the wasted seed of what could have been the next generation.

imagine I feel

A story is a story is a narrative is a story is an experience is

A lifetime.

“I don’t know.”

That’s what he said

, when I asked in a low, hushed, tone,

“How do you feel right now?”

The lovely pitch and tremolo of that voice.

As delicate as sinew finely strung and harshly wrought.

Utter “freedom,”;

requiring me to keep one foot in the wage economy of the mundane.

Like how your guru turned out to have a cigarette and woman habit.

Something must keep a mystæ mind from leaving here and now.

What better than an active hand in one’s own mortality?

Morbidity versus gestational rates.

Malthusian growth.

I heard your response before you said it.

And the forgotten

essence of Hesse’s

Glass Bead Game slips through as an ethos that the spiritual ideal, once obtained, is to then be put back into

the service of life and the living.

Doting and clinging like

a jaguar killing a caiman.

Death rolling.

Binding in the collective noun enumerating

A rare of knots.

Throwing seed and sowing semen.

Tilling the earth, post slash and burn agriculture.

Fallow lands left to lie and respawning

New growth.

Imagine I feel exactly as I appear.

little coincidences

I came to arrive.

Then I learned to continously come.

Things appearing as little coincidences save lives.

So be careful with your calculated capriciousness as you do not know how others see you.

You may be pseudo-savior to their Lazarus,

but here’s the point of that story that remains unspoken.

Lazurus did not know what to do with his revivified self once his re-enlivenor left his side.

But, is that really Jesus’ problem?

It’s one thing to know you have powers.

To bring somebody back.

It’s another thing to know the ends which you use them,

aside from your own pleasure at experiencing the wielding.

If p then q.

The bats in the belfry belong to Whom.

Do you ever cry, not because you are sad, but because your non-corporeal self feels some emotion so deeply that you must manifest a reaction in empirical reality?

And my left eye seizes up again and again.

Ministrokes.

Little deaths preceding big ones.

The old plea of pleases

Arms.

Pull me close in arms.

Mystical shaking from astral exploration. Tend my physical body while I fly.

Because, the reading of an old text alights my spirit almost too easily.

A mystical proclivity circumscribed in existential insecurity,

Because how and who am I?

You tell me what you see.

But, press me close to you, so I don’t runaway at what you say.

Held dear until freed.

Then, left as a tree shaking out dead leaves,

recalling, in newly resounding silence,

the originally begged pleas of ‘please’.