We sit at a table in The Baci,

an indoor table -

with a view of the tables outside, that may act

as a springboard,

                     the false limb,

                                                  or 'pseudopod',

of a primitive one-cell animal,

                                                which

                                                                - tho to

                                                                what end -

                    I compare our brains to:

We are not outdoors, no

        But we are not quite inside

                                                                either

- because of the windows -

                                                   Tho should it rain

we are entirely inside, & glad

of it. ( In fact, it won't rain.

                                           And,

another fact - the fan is on 'too hard'

- but half an hour, what is

a lunch hour, that one can afford

to move,

                   or complain,

                                                               unless one does it right away?

                                   Yep?

                                                    Right? )

Take The Guardian, a newspaper :

open it - & you are transported,

far away. I sit, 'literally', in The Baci, the

literal one - others sit, or sit metaphorically,

at metaphorical Bacis & think away too, aware,

as I am - for I 'generalize' -

of the larger world, the larger tides

& patterns that

pass through it,

& of their smallness

& the incidental nature

of their own lives

in relation to these tides,

even of the

invigoratingly

'human dimension'

this knowledge lends

- & its practical inutility.

You look outside, at the beautiful, slightly glaring light

that lands on Cacas' Chemists - & lands, too,

on whatever you're looking at - & consider the traffic,

        the passersby,

the scope of the disasters in Africa - which is almost

Medieval - though modern because man-made -

& the scandals in the City - which are Hogarthian,

English, & 18th century, though modern, too -

& your own problems, which are contingent &

practical - how to rob a bank,

(whether to move from that fan) whether

to get another coffee - which you need

if it is metaphorical & this stuff

brings you down.

                       If it is not metaphorical

but a real one, you must have

a whole hour for your lunch hour -

mine has 30 minutes.

2.
Now, did you take your newspaper? No?

Take mine, the Guardian. It is an eye,

a balloon on which you float, "Eighty Days" style,

around the world, never really touching down,

and also, of course, like a limb. You pick it up,

hit something with it,

perhaps a fly. And the world

is that li'l bit littler.

Or pehaps it is a steady state.

There are people bashing flies

all over the world - Hong Kong Herald here,

Bombay Tribune there, The Lima Truth, Montreal's

famous Examiner - killing perhaps the only fly

in that part of Canada - or did it get away? Who knows? The waitress looks up -

what is that guy

swatting at,

at The 'Syrup & Muffin' Diner? He settles down.

                                                                Her eyes

return to the jars in front of her.

Your eye takes in the window

& the scene outside - cars, pedestrians, Cacas the Chemist -

& is 'drawn' outside, & with it you

(with the assent of your brain - which in truth

according to some theories, is

an outgrowth, a sophistication, a development

of that optical organ) are drawn outside also.

You arrive together, your eye delighted,

your brain keeping up, & your 'self' rounding out their number,

invigorating to be up & doing - up &

'going', unfortunately, back to work -

in five more minutes.