The pulp of a genius tasting peach rhymes with her lips as she spills something evocative of Rita Hayworth . . as if a mad dash of spices on a rustic dish. And as she stitches words into the unspent void, she navigates the stolen moments and I’m thanking the blustery stars Prometheus once painted.
Our coffees swim in milk and paper as I opine on the moon landing being a hoax on account of the dearth of billboards. She argues that Shoemaker gets his mail sent there now so there must be something to it.
I listen as she fixes on something, after which comes the narration of scenes to a particular story. The scenes tumble into a heap of loose thoughts like a runaway mosaic and get ironed out like a Bronte girl talking shop with the girls over black coffee. She dredges a poem out of the tapestry without trying, and it embraces the previously industrial parts of me, turning my inner workings into hot butter. I listen as the missing goes found and the old becomes new inside the honey clench of sound.
We divine in the madness as if enjoying a siesta on Jupiter. The streets are a crush of hopelessly dotted calendars dressed in monotone, marching off to work in the hopes of finding their Broadway . . someplace other than here. The odd songs emanate from wanderers who have managed to loose the purpose of this endless carnival. They buy the time differently, in miniature panoramas of Everest whose peaks adjust the gritty concrete plains with bass. Careless with the elements as ripples of a stream, flirting with Mother Nature because they know she quotes Camus.
Sirens feed the canals with howl as the midday traffic vibrates in needy movements like manic piano keys. Guilt and dejection sprout up from the cracks in a raging blush, captured by the gilded frame of time in the angry sound that forever makes when it loses its way.
There is a distinct flavor to the accent of her classic rock melody as the conversation adjourns to sunsets in speakeasies without ever leaving our Formica booth. We spin a candied dew from borrowed scripts of long distance moons where Warhol lived and died before becoming our superhero.
Bowie’s voice cranks through a shortwave transistor radio behind the counter and he’s telling us we have five minutes to live. We just don’t know it yet. A midnight breeze works its way into the coffee shop as his lyrics nail the landing. And, as if on cue, a baby cries somewhere. To let us know the rumors are true.
All of them.