Welcome to the Lounge

coffee on another day of apocalypse

the return of the sun made me feel like i wanted to put on a parade, to welcome an old friend come back wrapped in a flag for heroic deeds in foreign wars.

i would line the streets with children holding the tiny banners of love's small triumphs, waving.

this waking fantasy, i soon enough realized as my first few sips of coffee pulled me up from the depths where my psyche was a temporary master of all realities, was—

but, may i just mention —before proceeding to the inevitable juicy stuff—

there was a nice melodic resonance there at the last rung of the ladder coming out of that turquoise pool of the factory of memories— a hint of Neil Young's immortal chorus "we are stardust, we are golden—"

— yeah, kind of a sixties' thing.

but, there was nothing sixtyish in the strong probability that lay ahead this day: no "band playing in my head"— even though I thought of the image of "living in a burned out basement" so many times, so many ways.

well, if there was a band, it would have been one of those state funeral type brigades of black-hatted shuffling military zombies where one muted trumpet yowls over the slow harmonic swells of tubas and French horns.

because today was the day— now it became all too clear—

— sounds of arctic ice floes breaking up—

that today i would probably be re-assigned, fired, re-orged, turned inside out by an organizational psychodrama that i long had seen coming, and which had very little to do, actually, with this particular bag of dreams and his mid-life cultivated computer chops.

and, as i accepted this, as i dropped the smoking gun of my all too strong ability to spend far too long buying tchotchkes in the visitors' center of the game preserves of endangered metaphors—

i wondered why my coffee tasted so damn good.