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Posts Tagged ‘tea’

Tea tastings and asian markets… Here’s some shots from my week:

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one cup, edge cracked.

I know a place where the green ivy grows longer,

no news of the affairs of men

only the occasional sound of fisherman’s whistle.

What is this room?

The sun shines and I boil my tea;

When the moon comes I read stories.

I have no news to report.

Other than to know that eventually I’ll stop chasing.

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Past your house.

The morning light seeps in through now, with the time change,

and I get confused when I wake up.

I count them, twelve steps to the bathroom, fourteen more to the tea kettle.

I lose track on the way to the balcony. Good morning sun.

Seen so many places, vast empty spaces, that I adapt to the crickets in the morning.

My own feet on the ground, shifting weight, and I wonder if the air will ever smell like winter here.

Those first chills always came early, summer days moving by fast, and people’d say, “fall’s comin’ on quick this year.”

At night, I play this game; I walk past your house on the way home from work. You’ve been gone but I think of you.

What’s the game? I hum your melodies backwards.

I thought you’d like it.

Because no one brings the guitar now, and no one the bottle of wine to share.

But the kettle rings, the tea steeps, thirteen steps to the dresser drawer, and from there, always far many more than a day should have.

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Triple Shot.

typewriter  736Earlier today, I sat at a table at the café right down the street.  At the table next to me a mother was reading the newspaper as her daughter, I’d age her at about six, was swinging her legs, kicking her mom’s chair.  Her mom didn’t react.  The girl said, “Mommy, what is air made of?” Without looking up, the mother said, “Nitrogen and Oxygen,” and the girl stopped kicking mommy’s chair.

——-

I worked in a tea house with a decent sound system in the center of campus in college and my favorite thing to do was early Monday morning, I’d play Carmina Burana as loud as it would go.

——-

I wonder if this ever happens:

“Honey, does this dress make me look fat?”

“Yes.  That dress makes you look fat.”

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First night of spring and the downstairs neighbor knocks on my door.  Can’t sleep, he tells me and I ask why.  “When I was eleven, or maybe twelve,” he says, and I think here we go and boil some water for tea.

“How long ago was that?” I ask him.

“1924,” he says.  “I took the train alone that year for the first time.  Marseille-Lyon-Paris.”

He tells me that he didn’t know why he took it, but that he did.  It isn’t that he didn’t remember why he took it, he tells me, but just at the time, he decided he was good and ready to take the train.  

“When I got here, I went walking,” he says, “over to the theater.”

I pour the water over some herbs from the window sill.

“But the gate surrounding it was tall and it was night and everything was closed.  No one was on the street so I tried to climb right on over.” he tells me and then stops.  He traces old blistered fingers on my table.  Either the wood catches his skin or the inverse, neither are smooth.  His eyes narrow.

“The gate was sharp,” he tells me, “the top of it.  I got one leg over fine,” he says, “to the other side.”  I pour him a cup.  “And the other got caught, stabbed right through my pants.

Arrowhead,” he says.

Flipped him right over, he tells me.  And there he was, suspended, upside down facing the lights of the city as the night fell deep, the scent of the tree above, a distant radio from the corner shop, and far off, dice players, he assumed are in uniform, speaking arabic.

“It was 85 years ago,” he tells me, “and I still know who won,” as he sips his tea.

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that burning.


He told me to build these walls and 
finger paintings scattered and posted with words
spat and spat and spat and 
he told me to light that candle in
my chest but it’s dark and the wax has
dripped onto the table
 
and i’m tired now, and that wax
will take a while to clean up

i’ll have to get a knife.

We once built this place and
everyone knew the words.
the hardest decision
was herbal, green or black
as dylan sang in an early morning in a late spring
and we slept in waves with the windows
open clinging to mouths and arms full of last nights

farewell is
exhausting and the time after 
is tired now, and that wax
is taking years to burn down.

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