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Black Dog.... a place
to be
by Andrew Rist
Every week it
changes,
These pictures on the wall.
Artists given a most precious gift - space,
Space to show their dreams, their craft,
Their attempt to become....
And the music,
always different, refreshing
One moment pounding a beat into the core of my being
The next chanting chants,
Lulling me into a state of meditation
Coxing my body into a gentle rocking motion.
Its cold outside,
winter has hit full zub zero
But the fans
Those great big twirly things, five in all,
Keep the warmth shuffled downward
To me.
My hands warmed by a cup of Earl Gray.
Artists hang
out here
Occassioned now and than by curious passers-by.
It has a good feel, a different feel
Just enough off the pace
Off the path to be enticing
Inviting
A destination for the curious
The exploring, those in pursuit of an edge
Of a takeoff point
Of a bit of calm and inspiration
Honey mustard,
roast beef, tomatos, and provalone
On a toasted focacia bread.
I can smell the soups,
My chair caught between cracks in the wooden floor.
It has seen its time and than some
But it serves its purpose well.
"Some bread,
olives and bit of Capcinno"
She asks, barely able to see over the tall purple counter top
"Well than, alright. Order up" comes the reply
While the others, four now, wait their turn.
I like this 20
foot high ceiling place
Its massive arched windows
Looking out onto the streets of St Paul
Somehow I always feel a bit more artsy in here
Snow is beginning
to fall again
Where's my gloves
I wasn't too taken by the pictures this week
Perhaps next week will be better
I still remember those paintings a few months back by
I've forgotten the name
But not the paintings, they were quite good.
