I am sitting in a coffee shop wearing new earphones and a denim button-up shirt. I have always loved coffee, but it has in the past made me too angry and too energetic; anger and energy are a bad combination. It is not an obviously bad combination when you are the miniature Hulk in a world that is much realer and harsher than Hollywood, but that’s what remains dangerous about the movies. You start to think that everything is obvious, when nothing is.
In my earphones I listen to jazz. My ears are filled with it and my feet are worn in three ways. I possess a job where my superiors possess my time and energy. During it I pace around classrooms and I bend down to check answers or whisper disciplinary actions or I seat myself quietly to not be a nuisance. Afterwards I will dance; dance to jazz, dance to swing, dance with an invisible partner that might as well just be a ball of energy, elasticity, but there’s no fun in the perfect dance so we strive for it, and always make it a little bit wrong to keep things fresh. Lastly I will vibrate the soles of my feet and toes with the battered hush of a bouncing basketball, bounce, silence — silence, bounce bounce, silence. Silence. Swish. Bounce. Clatter.
I am also drinking coffee. More specifically it is a cappuccino with a ratio of milk and espresso that eludes me. The knowledge is not mine, I have been taught this, I used to prefer latte’s and flat whites. I used to love the hazelnut vanilla stuff, till my coffee grading friend brandished his ire in laughter that sang of sheer —
Misunderstanding. Not me, but him, and coffee, and his understanding of it. When I drink coffee now I still try to smell it, and have a guess at whether or not the roast is dark or light or just right. It’s more of a 50/50 than a 33/33/33 if you really think about it. To be just right – that’s a sliver of chance. Dark or light or the line. Not binary, but close enough to it.
When I think about writing I am reminded that my teacher was the one who brought me to literature by saying ‘Hell no’ you are not slacking off in my class, you jackass. Out of respect to her I threw myself into her work. First time throwing myself into anything that wasn’t mere entertainment to pass on days.
I have coffee, earphones, jazz, worn feet, a degree that says: this is me.
I also have poetry, and I finish off the fiction of reality with a poem:
For what is poetry to me?
An orgasm of thoughts put into order
A cartwheel of cadence
A picture of a pitcher of pitch
Sound, not tar
Rising up and down
Dropping words so that
They splash and in reaching ear drains
Spiral and gurgle round.
Poetry is a rumbling resonance.
A drumroll of morse code.
But in reading, hearing,
The same rhythm flows –
Heartbeats – heartbreak –
Eyes closed – daybreak –
Symphony – harmony –
Disaster – relief –
No ABCs except for sheer mental meaning;
Poetry by myself is meaningless to me
Poetry to you all, individually –
That’s the world.
Poetry is the world to me.