The forces won't converge. Intense heat, harsh scent, physical labor of endless roasting; A scene of patient hovering atop silent water. Scholars have yet figured out how the Little Owl sat on Athena's shoulder. Albeit the bird was pretty common in Classical Athens. And even before that, it's nocturnal sight represented not only acute physical perception, but metaphorical insight to the indigenous peoples of the area. Borges might have attempted a reconstruction of Pelasgian owl ritual at dusk on stony plains of Dodona, where slopes of Pindus meet Thesprotian lowlands, kin-groups assembling beneath Valonia Oak, honey and barley harvested from Epirus fields laid at its roots, inscribed lead tablets bearing mortal questions passed to Peleiades, but we're simple folk.

A rapid, violent burst appears from nowhere, mute rouns on the drum, fidgety desperation to save the batch when its too late; Roasting as a quest for Truth in nature, through devised, profound irreversible transformation - blooming inert in all beings. Boundless insoluble creative scree.

It even turned Hegel into a split second poet of immeasurable height:
“When philosophy paints its grey in grey, one form of life has become old, and by means of grey it cannot be rejuvenated, but only known. The owl of Minerva takes its flight when the shades of night are gathering.”

I want my cupper in dawn

Before the world remembers its own name,
I stand in half-light,
hands around an empty mug
like a heavy engine on cold winter morning.

The kettle stutters into speech,
beans crackle, tiny planets break,
and suddenly the kitchen
smells like adventure.

Sleep still hangs from my eyelashes,
and the night has left its fingerprints
on the insides of my skull.
Adenosine ghosts retreat
as the dark liquid settles in the cup,
and my pulse learns
how to pronounce today, here, now.

This is more than chemistry:
it's liturgy.
The small clink of porcelain,
the first careful sip,
the way silence steps back a little
to let thought sit at the table.

Here I trade dreams for deadlines,
pajamas for public masks,
one swallow at a time.

Outside, buses cough themselves awake too,
newsfeeds blossom into noise,
people file into their roles.
But for one brief, steaming minute
I am only a person and a cup,
a soft animal of habit
warming its paws on the morning.

Later, I'll call it caffeine.
Now, in this fragile grey between,
I call it a spell
that turns “I can't”
into “maybe I will.”

So I stand in my small temple of tiles and light
whispering to nobody:

I want my cupper in dawn
as chorus and verses

Underground lines in the night
of soul, what if I'm not a good man
the cry, the wilderness and the desert
Like a mystic love song to be unknown
for those who wander on this earth
and in spirit, with Enoch around Ethiopia
At the same corner table, drinking
the same coffee for both halves
Pouring coffee to ground
when the night is young to spell
With these letters of autumn, come again
And if there would be no mystic love songs
I'd still have to write them all over again
And the cup would be empty, too
At your Summer House
Pouring coffee to ground
when the night is young to spell
Researching and studying the Revelation
The Magus of Stockholm
good like the coffee, unlike the damned times
And the more hearts are streaming
the more these cups will turn over
Written on a painted landscape
Rest under this tree
the patriarch said to the guests
Pouring coffee to the ground
when the night was young to spell
A chalice full of scorpions
Honey, both of us know
I'd still have to write them all over again
The same river in us, the whirling
cup and reference to have unclaimed
If light is a letter sent by God
and if there's a place for me,
and my XII writings
like coffee stains on an Egyptian scroll
From the heart, emptied and longing
for an old or new text
I'll write another poem
and what guides the hand
using neither ink nor lead
Pouring coffee to ground
oh not to throw it away
There'll be many copies to take
with so many copies to take
The reeds and the wind
If someone only had a heart like that...

Omakase brewing style means no recipes, but a deep understanding of coffees and clients the brewer works with. Brewing is a spontaneous, spur‑of‑the‑moment act that restores harmony in the universe. No sound can be heard twice.

Individual brewing style means deep understanding of coffees and clients the brewer works with. Brewing is a spontaneous act that restores the universe. No rhythm is bummed twice.

Individual brewing style means deep coffees the brewer works with. Identity is a biologic moment that restores the universe. No rhythm all rise.

Everyone has a style the brewer works with. In a biologic, unchanged moment that restores universe. All rise.

Everyone is a core brewing style that retains identity unchanged throughout life.

Everyone has a biologic core identity that remains unchanged throughout life.

Harmattan pointillist cologne on desert skins
pourover bloom snap satellite crash
spirit finding its way back to the body bringing far visions
before lost again to city life that made the
fragrant Harmattan grind gallery stroll
shush crump walking on ice snap satellite charsh Moon broadcaste cups
Shimmy, shimmy, ya, shimmy, yam, shimmy, yay
give me the mic' so I can take it away
off on a natural charge bon voyage
Yeah from the home of Dodger Brooklyn squad