“Pour over coffee”
off the mark for me because lately beans have left me shaky, crazy achy in chest and brain, strained and straining, draining and strangely dripping out, from nose and eyes and ears, everywhere but mouth. I’m mute and dumbfounded, soundless, drowning in a different cafe every day. Perhaps, you’ll say I’m wallowing, that I should simply swallow down this potion the modern stoics and cynics live by, these draughts of dryness and wit. But I’ve drank before deep enough, grown drunk on distance and irony, only to witness tension taking its rightful place beside spite and snark, seen starkness uproot sincerity and leave my landscape bare and cold. I’ve often held the world out away from my face like a pearl of glass, and from that span, the space seems safe, since I can’t fall down or in, but I’ve found it hard to focus then, the loci tiny and landings slim because the light is dim and I am dimmer still. Left alone, I glimpse movement but cannot see what is moving or how, or why I am not moved, the smooth mirrored surface too far away. I’ve grown to doubt this separation in recent days, this desperate shaking in my chest and hands caused more by wanting warmth than any single cup of caffeine. If I can push this pressure back forward, toward a voice that’s me, that means, that’s mine, quiet and clean, then I’ll lean down to see it all up close, ear to ground to find the lower sounds that might lead to somewhere new, for me—and maybe for you—digging down through dirt to witness roots shooting, spurting, shunting snowmelt to tender future sprouts, with or without our leave, suddenly pouring out, over, like a long-lost song that one day comes to my lips. And if you don’t mind, I’ll sing it now, softly, or maybe think it now and sing it then, when I’m done here, once I finish this thought, this final line, and this cup of green tea.
Aintcha got no gingerbread, Aintcha got no candy…