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Musing #8: Coffee
A poem for my favorite addiction
Do you drink coffee on Sundays?
Coffee is a wonderful and legal drug. I depend on it to tolerate you, and the horror of a morning sun. I hated the smell as a kid, but grew fond of its magic as an adult. It made my father approve of me, when I fixed him his cup. Then in college I thought I’d try it, just to see what the big deal was about. Zing Zing Zap Zap Fireworks in my brain! Once again, I tolerate you and I feel a little bit less insane. The more I drink, the more I work, the less I feel, the more I do. Move on soldier the machine can’t run itself. Production, Marketing Selling and Farting! Drink more and one day we’ll make you head of your own department. These are the words that lie above their mouse traps. They make me think I’m worthwhile then pull away the warm blanket. They give me the tit, and take it away before I am fed, and before I have found my angle. So when they’re gone when all is lost, when stupid shit is a part of my past. I still have coffee to turbo charge what ever is left for me to care about. Now that I am old enough and have the cash to buy a better cup, now that I’ve been around the world enough to know that you’ve been serving me brown water! Now I’ll make my own coffee, thank you very much. No more Nescafe, no more instant, trigger happy, bullshit. I’ll have a pour over, that’s a french roast and organic! With hints of hazelnut and a dash of almond milk. Ooooh what is that Huye Mountain! Where? Oh my god, Rwanda! Wait till my friends hear! Maybe I’ll get me some of that. Fair trade? Oh that feels good makes my insides tingle and tickles my fancy quite a bit! No wait! I think I found it: Guatemala San Sebastian! Oh, yes that is the one. A cup of that everyday through eternity and we can perhaps reverse all what the white man has done. Yes pour me one over the beans that some native woman uh -sorry- woman of color has plucked from the field with her bare hands and sown the seeds after her family had planted and had broken their backs over hundreds of years to get me that turmeric coconut Guatemala pour over on my big fat leather couch. I sip it and think of the Amazon, not knowing that it has nothing to do with Guatemala. I don’t really care where it is from. What is important is that it is strong and that I get my kick and that I am happy and that I can tolerate you once again. Zing Zing Zap Zap Let’s get to work Churn Churn Look! Bling Bling We know you want it bad. Suddenly I believe their lies and I am way too wired to be sad. Now I can be a smiling person and promise to refrain, from earlier thoughts about killing the people that I work with and myself.
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All thoughts are fictional. The writer does not actively contemplate suicide but resonates with those who do. He hopes that those who are going through a rough time, can find solace in feeling that they are not alone in this strange world.