Thursday, March 25, 2010

Chaos in coffee

Pot-boilers and romantic mysteries begin with the clairvoyant siren
passing through the swinging doors of a no-goodnik hole-in-the-wall
and setting a chain of events that culminate in the flying of a low-altitude plane over the plains of Africa.
This, however, is about Chaos. In a Coffee shop.

The slow-motion server with the smile frozen mutating as the splash of an open-faced cup o' Joe
sings through the air in driblets of brown steam
an M. C. Escher painting of fractal caffeine,
and the other server, well she's mid-joke papering the walls with the sounds of socially-induced mirth and good cheer,
and the patrons? Well, they just got free scones as the sugar granulates off their faces,
and the coffee shop has its precious little writer
on a Mac in a corner eyeing the girl clientele in sly joy
and tapping away at his ever-so-creative writing about writing about writing...
an ad infinitum ad nauseum prognostication of events never to come.
But he wills that the large glass window behind him
ensconcing this wooden home of sticky hot cocoas and intellectual brownies
would shatter of a sudden, as the coffee splashes, as the sugar granulated falls
and two arms of a middle-aged woman angry and all-encompassing
break through to make a grab at his neck,
in the hope of this chaos amidst the presence of chaos which is created by the writing of this
he loses track of a thread of thought and must grab at the tray of straws that have fallen over
as a result of the people leaping in haste to offer a helping hand.
I marvel at their willingness to be human in their own sort of way while in my own sort of way
I still wonder if writing this can will things into existence.

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