Musing #8: Coffee

A poem for my favorite addiction

Do you drink coffee on Sundays?

Coffee and writing: Thank you both so much.

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.

---

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.

❤️✊