Coffee Shop

I first wrote this piece several years back, after which I tinkered with it somewhere else until it didn’t look or feel the same. So recently, I breathed it back to life. You can find the original here.

She whittles the simplest thoughts into rhymes, the words folding seductively into her conversation as my eyes are held ransom to the truth of it all. She casts spells in her adult lullabies and I am lost when she chases this with a look that brings to mind Rita Hayworth’s sacred blush. She’s a danger to the universe of logical things as she plies her witchcraft. I’m fixed to my seat like a lonesome traveler, endeavoring the stitch-work of her words on the unspent void. She steals my silence and spends it on the blustery stars and I feel like a boy on his first day of school.

We chew on saucers of bone china as they spill over with hard coffee and sugar milk onto our white paper placemats. I opine on how the moon landing was a hoax and the gaze she hits me with is a reminder of our very first conversation, when I bore witness to her Celtic summons that breathed life into my heart; I remember how I leapt inside her every word as if a dragonfly to water lilies.

She’s a classic love story whose legend is being written inside her every breath as the sun emits scandalous lashes across her ivory features. And then she tells me how Gene Rodenberry gets his mail sent into orbit so there must have been something to that moon landing after all.

I believe in magic as she weaves her song; a magic which yields its luscious sweetness into the ordinary pieces of my day. When she fixes on something in particular, I am the happy fool to her narration. She tumbles a heap of loose thoughts that behave very much like a runaway mosaic, after which she irons through the harmony until it’s swimming in the deep of me. She possesses the ambition of newborn planets and the despair of runaway galaxies and it always occurs to me too late that I have no defense when it comes to this brilliant reckoning.

Where once I ran with bloodless descendants of famous novelists who purchased heartbreak at wholesale prices just so they could doom the open market, now I spend my pockets clean with her. She has transformed all monochromatic obligations into a carnival whose tapestry bleeds with open roads and furious music and outrageous mysteries and mad, mad love.

We dine on this madness like tourists on Jupiter, and then my eyes and ears return to the cramped little brick and mortar nothing of a coffee shop we’re sitting in. The streets are a crush of stories fighting the predictable ironies of mortality as they march to work in the hopes of finding their Broadway while whispering to themselves anywhere but here. An odd foreign song emanates from a wanderer who manages to loose the purpose of this circus tale. This wise soul buys his time differently, in miniature panoramas of Everest whose peaks transform the gritty concrete plains with a reckless bass whose soul belongs to the true things of Shakespeare and Vincent. His melody skims stones across the elements that lord the visible world, painting ripples on the face of water in the same way Mother Nature flirts with Camus.

Sirens feed the urban canals with a preternatural howl that announces the tragedy of it all as midday traffic paints vibrations in needy movements like manic piano keys . . . punching through the darkness like feral children running wild in a strange forest. The seeds of guilt and dejection, confusion and hopelessness and rage sprout up from the cracks of the city like fiery trees out of some obscene nursery rhyme; the skyline provides convention in the form of a gilded frame as time births the angry sound that forever makes when it loses its way.

And now I turn to find her looking at me, her face is the same and different all at once. Her eyes are the first and the last and the forever of my dimension. Her voice drowns out the death of everything around us and my ears pluck the accent of her timeless melody. The conversation turns to me and her as outlaws, hopping from one unmentionable locale to the next and living on the American dollar and exotically named drinks. We spin a candied dew from borrowed scripts of long distance conversations as we toast to Warhol and Mother Theresa and wonder if their roads ever met. We come to the conclusion that everyone’s road meets somewhere.

Bowie’s voice scoundrels its way through a musty transistor radio behind the counter that’s nestled between a black and white photograph of Joe DiMaggio and a crucifix. In the song Bowie is telling us we have five minutes to live. We just don’t know it yet. That’s because we never know it yet until we catch up with it. A breeze soaked in midnight slinks its way across the cold tile and laminated floors of the coffee shop as Bowie’s tale lets us know the rumors are true.

All of them.


30 thoughts on “Coffee Shop

  1. Dearest B,

    You, the brilliant writer, honing his craft for us to witness. The first was lovely, the second wonderful. This, this is absolutely delicious.

    I can’t even write more as I lack the words.



    Liked by 1 person

  2. I wrote these words in 2013, and they are even more true today. What a piece, Pilgrim.

    Nothing fancy about walking into a bar and grabbing a stool across from the guy with the handlebar mustache who is tending. The reason you are here, the guy makes you believe you are the only one in the place. There could be people wall to wall, all talking too loud and making individual asses out of themselves, but the guy behind the bar speaks softly and only to you. You hang on his every word since each word sounds as if it was crafted on a fine workbench somewhere. The information in these words belies their beauty. There should be some pap or nonsensical construct since beauty and well-said don’t usually come in the same package. Your draw to the place results from the intelligent and profoundly moving words placed together to make the hearing well worth any effort to be there.

    So this is the blog of Cayman Thorn, the person who Drinks Well with Others. Each post is as if he is writing a personal message to the reader. There is no escaping the draw-in and ultimate commitment the reader makes to the words so well written and composed. This is not your Millennia’s blog of “OMG,” “amazing,” and “it was so surreal.” No, my friends, this is the gosh, honest real thing. YOU NEED TO HAVE A BRAIN TO VISIT. If you left yours somewhere out in the rain, you might as well use the facilities and take off since you will really be bored here.

    This is a writer’s place run by a writer for writers to enjoy. Sure, other artists will appreciate a visit, but don’t get in the way of Mr. Thorn when he is throwing down words. He’s got to have a lotta room cause his words are words that most words would like to grow up to be. I don’t mean they are big words; I mean they are meaningful words. Words with substance and arranged with care.

    Okay, a small excerpt from his post on the 19th . . .Cayman decided not to use the internet for a while, so here he describes:

    Things you believe when you can’t use Google for verification:

    -Brad Pitt once played minor league baseball for the New York Mets
    -Chris Christie used to be a toll booth operator
    -The term “Made in America” is made in China
    -If a hyena and a tanning bed made a baby, it would look like Snooki
    -Neil Armstrong found a half-eaten bag of M&M’s on the moon
    -Russia is two months ahead, which means they’ve already held the Winter Olympics.

    Thank you, Cayman, for helping launch My GRL. This is like a concertmaster helping with a ukulele lesson, and this ukulele player appreciates it.

    Liked by 2 people

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