Journal Entry (Reading Baraka)

I sit reading Baraka at a bus stop brown bagging a liquid midnight snack. Down the street, my colleagues work the nightclub crowd I only watch the nightclub women- sleek like birds found in jungles flowing like a river of glitter past the invisible man at the bus stop A posh restaurant behind my perch disgorges glistening cargo of folks that will never be hungry I wonder if they can spare a table scrap; I'll settle for a single butterfly shrimp There were many nights in my past when I'd drink a bottle of the ten-dollar cabernet over a meal of sausage and pasta while reading Baraka in my chrome-and-marble suburban kitchen these folks from the restaurant don't know I'm just their kind Or not; I'm a cardboard bohemian; though my beret is askew and my goatee has grown out like so many weeds I still dig my Trane and Monk and Diz though their sounds rock me only in my dreams... Don't pity the style in which I live; I've invaded hearts and souls and the internet; my house is around the corner, just down the block from the glitzy hotel where monarchs stay while they visit the boss of the free world Meanwhile, I am the boss of the bus stop and I don't care if McDonald's says they are closed when I come around hungry; someone from that restaurant has left a bag of crumpets in the park across the street and I will dine in style with my brown bag snack as I sit at my bus stop, reading Baraka. Written November 21st, 2001 © on Nov 21 2001 05:58 AM PST   0 • 10