092618 Everything is on. The lights, the LEDs, the fly on the bar, the barflies, the secret cant of the ones behind the counter-- not just baristas but anyone who’s ever been the one who had to be patient and neutral and positive and resilient and generic and invisible but charming. the retail worker. the hot water the espresso maker the coffee urn the register the lamps above the bar the lamps above the tables, with their fringes glowing the girl who came in late is taking off all her rings and putting them in a cup. she brought qdoba. she’s eating behind the counter. the guy who made my irish coffee is whistling the sombre part of the star wars theme. the music in the background got quiet. now it swells back up, broad and turbid as a thunderstorm rolling over kansas city. i don’t think he’s thrilled about having to work with her all night. but who knows she makes a pucker face while chomping a nacho: the absent concentration on her face makes me love her. everything is on fire, the brand new fall air, already ancient and dilapidated. the people behind the bar the people out here. the people out there, in the street the street itself, that used to be funky and is now some kind of registered trademark of funky. her names erica. guess what, erica? i installed some of my paintings at the bar i used to work at. all by myself. all by yourself? yep. erica has a story too, but i cant really pay attention because i’m typing this. it has something to do with local art. did i menton i love them? and the normal girls to my right, with their normal wisconsin annoying curved-vowel dialect. and the hum and chatter all around and behind me. did i mention i have learned how to be more grateful? have i mentioned that the blessing of experience is to learn to recognize the golden moment *while you’re still in it?* have i mentioned everything is on fire, alive, on fire, burning, alive, everything is on? i had one irish coffee and i wanna keep havin em, keep havin em, keep havin em. but imma go pick up millie from capoeira instead. i still gotta grade tonight. its weird, says one of the normal girls. she had asked for sugar for her coffee. its weird, its fucking weird, its life.