Sunday Scribbling #128: Coffee

[And besides], sleek black misses the whole point, doesn’t it? Conveys/signifies a noire when in fact that’s entirely beside the point. There was no bête certainly, well, at least not yet surely, and decidedly no noire. There are angelitas 3 Marys, say, praline, say, brown sugar, not Mick’s but brown brown sugar and then there is sleek black. But s/b was only in s/b - encased, sheathed, muscled, gloved, hand in gloved, okay, yes, the hair but – you see how I resist the naming. And that’s it. Angelita that resists further demarcation, praline that resists, coffee that resists, café au lait you offer, but that sets us again, and erroneously again, off the bête, when what’s called for is the slow titration of one cup coffee, dark (okay, yes, at root, aren’t we all, this conceded), sugar added, but then what is it – milliliters?, dollops?, no, you’ll lose your way in, dollops will take you past the point of no return either starting again or a larger – you wouldn’t call it a mug, now would you? Where would that get you, pray tell? Mug? Ceramic bowl? Cup minimizes the whole thing, where’s the poem in that? Cup. Mug. What would hold this x, and even mathematics, save perhaps calculus, no, even calculus misses the mark, you see what she was/is has a sound for the eye. A sound for the eye. Breathe. Say it again: relax: breathe: a sound for the eye. The way green collides with/diffuses blue your feet in one or both, sitting on a rock (stone) you’ve set in midstream and your son puts his wet naked back up against you and the very thing you were saving yourself from is upon you anyway. That color. Forget the color, forget breathing, forget tiptoeing on the ice. It’s right there, right there under your nose. The point of contact saturates pants, shirt, and anything else you might or might not have on. Might or might not be carrying. You might even say, if you recall the light brown bug on his light brown back that it’s one or both of, because now proximity lays waste the need – need? – desire to rhapsodize, extemporize, all the lab equipment broken glass on green lawn, because the color is nothing if not contact, saturant. Saturn, only the way he sez it: saturan. Saturan. Stretch it out. And as you do, stretch out beside him, shelter, Jupiter’s storms are never wary. Vary even less, and what was sleek black dissipates into an odorless rainbow of what not that answers to no one, no place.