The man with the rooster on his head

Ah, finally here we are!

You, over there at a table by yourself,

Me at my table with my latte, my computer

And my book of Bulgarian poetry (in translation).

We both seem to have things to do -

You writing in your little notebook,

Me, fingers pecking at my keyboard . . .

But I've been wanting to talk with you so much,

To introduce myself.

Maybe you have noticed me before,

As I have noticed you.

I suspect you are not really as busy as you look.

You have always seemed, well, interesting to me

With that rooster

On top of your head.

We have much in common,

I'll bet.

You seem like a thoughtful man.

You are always jotting something

In that little spiral notebook.

Or I catch you looking up, lifting your chin ever so slightly,

Lost in a thought.

Now your lips are moving.

Are you talking to yourself or to someone I can't see?

Now your brow furrows slightly

And you lean back

As if you are listening.

I wish you were listening to me!

I want to tell you

How tired I am of writing to a screen!

How I wish I could be young again,

How I'm worried about the way the world is going.

And I'm so, so tired.

How I'm less certain about what happens at death

Than I used to be when it wasn't right around the corner,

How I wish I had bought stock in Disney in the 70s

(And you will absolve me with a look.)

I will tell you how much I miss that bemused smile

That came with my eyes,

That seems to have disappeared of late.

How I wish I knew what to do with my library!

(. . . Knowing that books will someday be valued again

But not in my lifetime! I know you would understand!)

How I want to nail how to be healthy and centered

For the balance of my days,

But I'm always playing catch-up with my health.

And you, more than anyone else

(I have never had a conversation with),

Seem like someone I can talk to about all these things!

I really don't think it's the rooster on your head

That makes you stand out to me.

The rooster might not even be visible to anyone but me!

It might just be me, seeing your nagual!

(Like that man in the corner

Who I see as being protected

By a large intimidating spirit-dog.

I see what I see!)

Right now, I see me

Sharing your table

Having an animated talk with you.

I admit, I have to overcome a mental block

Before I actually introduce myself to you.

Ah, I'm too late!

You have stood up and are getting ready to leave the cafe.

OK, here's the problem:

I'm just a little worried that you're not quite real,

That you are only there

Because I'm here.

But am I here?

Or am I walking out the door

Into the swirling snow?
..............
You see how this poem is about trusting my imagination to take the lead in widening the "doors" of my perception of what is "real". (Here I am borrowing Aldous Huxley's use of the word "door" in his "The Doors of Perception".) Also I have been listening to Villoldo's interview of Gary Zukav (author of "The Dancing Wu Li Masters"), where Zukav expounds lucidly on how there is no such thing as objective reality. We can either bemoan that or dance with it!
Here I am having fun by creating a situation where I am trying to build up courage to introduce myself to a man who may be real or imaginary, but who is probably a little of both. If you don't know what I mean by "nagual", google it. It is quite interesting to contemplate, and challenging to wrap our Western head around. I urge anyone who is big on spirit or medicine animals to look into the nagual, in the context of certain Middle American Indigenous spirit/ medicine traditions.