Café 12 After Midnight, Sometime In '79 (Rev./Rep.)

Objects moved vaguely past peripheral spectrums, through dilated pupils, on a cobblestone passway, in a Village called Greenwich. Our dreams yet to peak, though our thoughts... well blottered, while we sat juxtaposed ass-sore on wine crates at a box cafe grotto in a windowless basement expressively constructed for incense and 'tea', 'front a stage that stank hard of Boonesfarm and Thunder our late night grapes d'jour at a buck ninety-eight, before quarts turned to liters, waiting for the drunkened featured guest. Recitations by Bukowski, applause, a cymbiled concert, tarnished spoons on bottle necks; We, 'n Ziggy felt the Stardust - 'neath the streets at Cafe 12. Curled wafts of gray smoke fixed wandered eyes skyward, on the black-strobe washed ceiling, breathing in the vintaged dust, mesmerized, anesthesized to the million silver stars raining over ashed tables, while the sweet tongue of verse mixed rhythm, sedating flux with the punch of sweet leaf - ['fore a chaser of spirit jo]. It was the nineteen-seventies, Deborah Harry bought us drinks; we'll always swear she really did the same year Cronkite told us about the Jonestown Massacre, and that Da Nang was just a 'conflict', though Watergate was the skinny back when vinyl still had spin. Cat Stevens leaped moonshadows 'fore his peace train sailed east with some tillermen from Tehran, for a ticket to advocate his love for a god whose word sanctions war (?) And the plot against Rushdie, while holding a stained Quran and praying that the infidels be banished from his world, from a mideast mountain top, overlooking red desert, in the wake of social cancer - otherwise known as Hate. Such is time and consequence - in fast forward movement. We thought we could freeze it..., We Were Wrong, and we knew it- Or did we....................? © 2014-All rights reserved Frank James Ryan Jr. / FjR *Revised October 14th,2016 Reposted October 20th,2016