Bakuta Lady

(I can only keep up with my actual thoughts if I type really really really fast; this was one of those hi-speed sessions)

Bakuta lady (part I)
I have wandered through neighbourhoods and delighted in the small things, and I have tried to ignore this screen, but something sticks in you forever… I am looking outside, at a lot people walking down the street, at an Asian man in a black cap with foggy glasses, a buzz cut redhead looks back down the sidewalk, a bit skittish, maybe he was feeling guilty for littering, and the Keith’s logo above the recently bankrupt store doorway. The phone number for a hairdresser in a yellow font on an awning; light comes through the window and through a clutch of potted ferns and small Amazonian trees with highly bunched flat leaves, more dignified than a palm, and the nice Native Indian looking woman in the kitchen maintains this oasis of calm on a dusty crass blue-collar street. One sketchy looking mechanic walks in; he has no business being here, he doesn’t he know how to read probably, he’s waiting for Bakuta woman in the kitchen, maybe he wants to kiss her; I know I probably do. She wears a red apron, has a royal bustle about her, round lips that could melt a lead pipe. She has a shimmering gold thing around her neck. There's a defunct organ by the doorway in the north end of the cafe, not useful for much else beside holding up knick-knack statues and empty candlesticks. What’s that smell from the kitchen? I feel like I’m somewhere in the Caribbean, except for the bland Canadian radio, so I disturb other coffee drinkers with my Roy Orbison squeaking out at the lowest possible setting, barely perceptible enough to get you distracted (I have a fondness for small mind games.) There is an announcement board across from me, cluttered with tiny neighbourhood emergencies and all those unknown hopes and dreams and shysters or lonely folks looking to find community where public broadcasting says there ought to be. I went to the washroom, found genuine flowers and some tasteful magazines. I tried my best not to piss on the floor. Bakuta woman is too good for the sketchy looking man on the couch; he seems gruff and lazy, a bit long in the hair. I try not to pass judgment, leave that for the Lord, but when you’re by yourself at a coffee table you can’t help wondering. I tried different styles today; I tried Bob Dylan’s triplicate rhythms, I tried a rhyming thing that made me queasy just thinking about it, and I tried to write a cover letter for a job application, but practical things have abandoned me completely. I don’t think much about my broken body when I’m typing like this; my MRI was pushed back five months, my pelvis is out of alignment, I have no core stability; I’m talking about it like it wasn’t even my fault. Was it my fault that I broke my body? I don’t know, I stopped being able to place blame. I don’t know much about placing blame but I don’t mind stepping forward and taking responsibility. And that sure is a bitch.

(to be continued...)