home fucking sweet home

I’m in for the long haul tonight and I don’t mean truck-driving.

I mean Bardo, a coffeehouse in an edgy part of Denver that I discovered online. Although not convenient due to its cross-town location from my former digs, it was an invaluable refuge and escape and hangout during the demise and hatefulness flung my direction. It serves the same purpose again.

Bardo offers something unique to cafes. Neither a pastry nor special coffee it be. Nor beer or spirits. It offers late hours:

Sunday-Thursday 6 am to 1 am;

Friday And Saturday: 6 a.m. to 4 a.m.

I’ve stayed pretty damn close to closing because it’s a haven that I’ve yet to have in Denver. For $2.50, you can drink bottomless mediocre coffee to your heart’s content. Pair that or any other bakery delectable or perhaps a spot of tea with a book or laptop — of the seven customers in my immediate vicinity, six are on laptops — with the latest cafe hours I know of in Denver and, really, you never have to go home.

Though I wish I could

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This is no damn fucking way to live. I am black. I am exhausted. I am empty.

I am heartbreak. And so tired at 9:11 p.m. that I can barely keep my eyes open.

I used to believe that lack of employment is my biggest problem. I was mistaken. It is lack of home. From it stems beingness in the world. Without it, we are nothing but a puff from a dandelion cast nakedly and unbuffeted to and fro by the hard twists of life. Or people.

Home. Sweet. Fucking. Home.

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