flowers and coffee

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It's spring time in Montreal and everything is beautiful as I wander the streets wearing a white beach dress and no shoes like some lost hippy child. Who could have known that there were so many people in this town, as people on bicycles and rollerblades fill the streets. I drink a one dollar ninety five cup of filtered coffee in cafe sans nom, a cafe without a name but instead a blank space where the label would have been. Its exam time and the smell of books and ink fill the air, but I prefer to smell the soon to blossom flowers and the costa rica noir coffee bought from Marche Jean Talon.
Hockey fever has swept the city, and fire stations, depaneurs and the little Vietnamese Pho Restaurant down the road are adorned alike with the flag of the habs, the joke on me? joke on you. name given to the quebecoise the stanley cup comes around more often than haley's comet ice hockey team. The religion, bible and God of this town.
I exist on a diet of sushi, one litre ten dollar bicycle man wine, last week's fondue party and cafe du jour, and ask myself if i can ever go back to three dollar fifty large latte to go, two sugars, three shots, easy on the foam, thanks dom, and yes i shall be at the next gig.
I have denounced phones, computers, cameras, portable music players and other such devices designed to keep you at the beck and call of the world, to answer its every whim - or at least thats what i tell myself as the material world i once owned falls apart around me and i settle into my big arm chair to read yet another Tom Wolfe book, my Hero's Hero.

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