The Last Time

The last time I spoke with Harry McBride was really only half a conversation. The lesson he gave was meant for her, but I was the only one listening, so I was the one who received it. 

The root chakra, at the base of the spine, is a primal life force. Next is the sacral chakra which many people equate with sexuality, although it has more to do with creativity. 
  Harry paused his explanation to show his diagram, sketched quickly on the back of a flier, to the object of his affection. She stopped briefly for a quick look on her way to refill the coffee machine with water. He continued.
The chakra around the solar plexus is very important and then going higher, we have the heart and throat chakras. At the very top is the third eye and the crown chakra, both related to functions of higher consciousness.
Not caring that I was second choice, I snatched up the crumbs. “I think Carlos Castenada must have written about a chakra at the solar plexus because when he goes into dream time he ends up with this weird sort of extra spirit arm that comes out of his stomach and attaches to things in the world around him.”
Harry paused, trying to remember, that sounds likely…
“So what do these do, how can they help you?” 
  He looked up with a forlorn tinge to his eye. Well I suppose you can focus on the chakras with specific yoga exercises or meditations, but I just know the basics, no practical applications.
Harry turned to gain her attention one last time as she dashed by with a carafe. His half wave didn’t even pause her work routine for half a second.
“If not chakras then what do you rely on?” 
  I was always partial to the spirit guide, but, of course, sometimes the only advice they can give you is to jump off a cliff. He ejected a raspy cough and a wry smile. 
My library is still filled with Harry’s books: a biography of Madame Blavatsky, a reference book of Celtic Gods and Goddesses, and a bushel of Charles De Lint novels. He’d filled everyone at the coffee shop with books on everything from the 19th century occult, to ancient Egyptians and hallucinogenic rituals. He was a desperate teacher, distributing lessons at an astonishing rate before the inevitable.
Six months before he stopped coming to the coffee shop, he appeared, wraithlike, at a workmate gathering at the bar down the street. 
She sat up rigidly, “what is he doing here?” she whispered not too covertly. 
Another co-worker and I stayed to chat with him while the rest of the group migrated away from the table. He only drank guinness.
“Do you regret any of it?” I asked him once.
  What, joining the navy, going to war? He smiled. No, that’s what needed to happen, and it did get me out of Pennsylvania. 
Everyday at about 3 PM he would leave the coffee shop for the little Eritrean market two buildings down and buy a cheesecake. Then he would smoke a hand-rolled cigarette and sit down to his afternoon snack, backpack placed carefully beside his seat.
  When I got out of the navy I was offered a job in the tech industry. If I’d taken it, I’d probably be much more wealthy. Choking laughter. But I made a decision then that I wanted to have an outdoor life.
This assertion was confirmed by an alpine-hiker look, a muted green hat that looked like a cross between a fedora and a fisherman’s cap, and khakis that hugged trim legs. Despite his looming expiration date he exuded virility. He who talked of third eyes, gnostic rituals, and the power of menstrual cycles. 
But he could only catch her full attention when she told him of her dreams.
After he was gone, I heard that his sister came to collect his scattered library. I wasn’t working at the coffee shop anymore. I kept his books.

Fun With Poetry Magnets

Here are a couple little ditties I found in an old journal. I made them with those refrigerator poetry magnets, and I think I must have been about 18 or 19…

#1
the moment death stares on my
languid smile I will sing again
soaring above the gold void
I will still whisper of beauty
re-calling, deliriously, the
essential language of life
though never showing in time
it was only under the madness
of man’s frantic worship

#2
when will love shine through me
waxing like a full moon in an elaborate
sea of needed dreams
sitting here, wanting you gone
yet near me
I would run after you
but I only look and think