Babalawos use caracoles or palm nuts, depending on which route on the diaspora, to plow prophetic insight. I use coffee grounds. A reinvention of ritual, with just enough caffeine to keep sober in this concrete jungle meets modern zen garden. I say to Gaelle: “Otro cafecito, mi cielo?” And we refuel for the future past tense, old Chicago house, leaving a trail of soft espresso grounds to mark the sugar.
