The Bean
This is my tiny social world
Hanging from a tree...my world...my social bulb
The outside lights are turned off
Forgotten by the busy baristas
The only light shimmers from the rays
Of a purple and golden sky fading to blue and black
The stars are invisible in this city
But twilight twinkles...
In the form of tiny embers from lit cigarettes
Here they light up the street...my tiny social world.
The silence is broken by the tap tapping of fingers
And the beating thumps of bass
Made from the calloused palms of the djembe player
Sounds of acoustic guitars flailing and echoing
Off locked car doors and poster-covered windows
From the shop that sells sweet floral vapor
Energy flows tweaking our pulsing veins with liquid caffeine
If I close my eyes I'm in another world...
Morocco...or Sudan
Welcome to Indiana...to my clique, my group of peers
We are a cult of poverty and ego
A masquerade of pop culture references and subculture swagger
Bodies tired
Hands and feet sore from long hours of repetitive movements
From the routine capitalist paradox of freedom and imprisonment
Welcome to my world...my tiny social bubble
Welcome to the Wells street bridge
Where flip-floppin feet...flip rocks across a toxic river
Where 19th century women once swam in less revealing attire than men
The door swings open, and like any 19th century bar-room, all heads turn
The only shots served are dark brown stimulants
The roaring hurricane jet engine of the espresso machine
The chink and clink of ice cubes being smashed and scooped into cups
Bitterness and steam...
Frothy foam hiding the heat that lies below it
Burning soft eager lips
Heads bob to the beat
Sounds from beast paws, talons plucking strings...
Sirens wailing from their perch upon bar stools
Animistic energy...
The pure essence of youth in revolt
Forming revolutions with every out-of-tuned note
Welcome to my safe tiny social space
Where poets speak with both frailty and bravado
Where masters and amateurs alike vie for a fifteen minute spotlight
A chance to perform for the disinterested crowd
Who's voices rise above that of the poet and that of the singer
Their words so intricate and benevolent...drowned
Both appraisal and tribute to the greats:
Lennon, Mascius, Oberst, Dylan...
And as Hurdy Gurdy Man receives praise
From clapping hands, whistles, and a hoot n` hollerin
From those disenchanted denizens...
One lone clapper ends the applause with one final clap of his calloused palms
I think to myself...it doesn't get any better than this
This is my tiny social world
It is all creeds, all races, and all genders
Where a cacophony of minds share compelling stories
Of real-life sorrows met with real-life integrity and real-life struggles
We meet in the dark alcove...
The scent of cologne and perfume mixing to form androgynous olfaction
The ensemble of artists, poets, and musician's assemble in the street
Story-teller's sharing real-life tales of affliction, homelessness, abuse, and depravity
Welcome to my tiny social world
We are children of a third world American nursery
An orchestra of hope and determination
There are millions of us on every corner
On every street
On every page of a beat poet's book
And in the sound of every drummer's beat
Our faces are soured by debt and grief
Yet the lemons we receive create the sweetest drinks
Our smiles, cheers, grins, and laughter
Expands this tiny social world
Into a majestic place
It is here, and now is our time
And one day we'll look back to our names sketched on bathroom stalls
And see the same names engraved in stone on the columns of history's cathedrals
And my friends...it all started here...in this place...The Bean.
Copyright Adam A. Gaile 2013
