There are Demons in My Coffee (INeedCoffee.com)

There are Demons in My Coffee


Here sit I,

a self-proclaimed coffee-shop

want-to-be-writer geek.

I come here for many reasons:

to scorn others like me, but who are not

as yet well-practiced;

to advertise the appearance of a soul in conflict,

hastening to write down new revelations

as though the mind's precious ink were to disappear readily;

I come here to listen to the types of ideas

that are given to the nature of a conversation

which lasts the depth of a mug, or two.

A few others, they come to read,

and that suits me just fine.

I with them, we form a steady colour, a backdrop

against which all coffee-mug conversations stand out.

Usually, these brief interchanges are of

the financial planning-pyramid schemes; or

Evangelical, or "Am-I-Right-To-Feel-

This-Way?" varieties;

things that I relish to despise,

I feel like a spy, though not as noble,

my pretense at writing perhaps my disguise;

more likely my shield.

Then, there is her, one of

my compatriots in backdrop.

Her eyes smooth out the pages

tended by her compelling hands.

She near the corner, as always,

a bishop's move away,

guarding the diagonal between us, knowing

I've no right nor reason to this space transgress

other than to her approach.

I think not.

But I can dream, yes

and in fancy fashion many tales

that would satisfy my growing hunger

with the notion of some connection between us.

I long ago started this by thinking about

her and my cup,

Tingling with excitement at the mere thought

that my draught tonight may be an offer

in the very chalice her lips did grace

only the night before.

No measure of sanitation could have cleansed

all traces of her presence left behind.

This cup, then, could be the only thing

between her lips and mine.

If our timing were perfect, night after night,

I would continue to intercept the cup

by her last sipped, still ripe with her touch.

How easy it is, really,

to construe intimate connections between us

across grounds not yet considered, yet

must be powerful enough, if my awareness

lends to their power,

and in weaving such threads may

pull tight in reality, making true

that which I've not summoned the courage to do.

Though I've no knowledge of her directly,

would we still count ourselves as strangers

if some common acquaintance parleyed us?

I will measure in this manner, then,

the intimacy of our connection.

I will send word through all of my closest,

and, forwarding only to their closest,

see how long it takes to reach her.

I've read that coast to coast, this same experiment

no more than 10 messengers interceding

did take to connect perfect strangers.

I would like to travel the shortest of such

people-paths between me and her; who knows

who intercedes between us? Perhaps even

Britain's Queen, or Rome's Holy Pope.

Already enamoured, I am much emboldened

by this newfound intimacy.

There are so many things we share:

perhaps the change she deals out

at the counter, next finds itself in my hand.

(I pay with large bills just to increase my chances

with this treasure.)

We breathe the same air;

Perhaps even my last bath did contain

pearls from her own;

water droplets which I embrace

may recently have cleansed her nude form.

A few droplets? Nay,

I will conjecture that, through a reversal

of Probability's Laws (which have not my sanction)

my entire bath is a composition of water droplets

which have all kissed her surface

at some point in time.

I must be her lover, for none else

can claim such proximal sense

of awareness, nor feel it's true power.

I wonder, as I look across,

does she excuse my excesses?

Her composure betrays nothing of the kind:

two arcs, crescents over constellation eyes,

dark brows pointed down, her thoughts

sure to join there and, gathering speed,

run the slope of that royal ridge

to the pages, splayed.

Her mouth, waiting to be discovered

behind this veil, sometimes practicing spells,

now crouches in a smile.

Maybe she's clever, just tests my faith

and all I've to do is discover

how we truly connect.

This is like being in a book, at a place

where you cannot see the end

yet it fires you to know

the end exists in the pages you hold,

and in the time you read,

cannot be rewritten.

All right, I'll charge on from here

emboldened again with the sure

knowledge there is an end.

If only I could shut out

the hive's activity around me -

infernal racket!

A trio of young men, recent additions,

have confounded my space;

delight each other in soft speech.

One points out, and with hands clasped the others approve:

"Oh, look at this! There's a rainbow in my soup!"

A rainbow, how (sickening) sweet it must be...

take it as a token

of your evening's good fortune

I'll stick to the demons in my coffee.

Ah, the demons in my coffee!

Now there's something that makes sense...

From what alternatives

Would my mind's paces have found origin?

Many, perhaps, but none that beguile me

Like the enchantments of the mystic.

As I brood, night after night,

The wicked spells concoct themselves

The elements disguised as coffee, sugar, and milk.

And her? Her nearness is an influence,

A catalyst to the reactions

Borne in my cup.

A catalyst? Nay, the affinity between her

And the magic wreaking havoc on me

has more the nature of witch and brew.

!!!

I must hold on to this image, this idea,

For of all indulgements, this one tastes the best,

Though I fear that somehow

the communion of my visions of her

By my pagan fantasy affair

Corrupt and tarnished will be left.

!!!

Too late;

past the point of no return am I

seized and paralyzed by the potency of her spell.

As she reads, mouthing silent incantations,

Her hands carelessly stroke her cup, and from

Across this room her fingers have lighted on

The potion in my own.

She wills the timing of the mix;

Her hand guiding the fluid boundary between the ingredients.

Little demons, dark and of simple form,

Like an electric spark,

Between her fingertips and coffee are born.

She wills them into being, and assisting her

In the dance they willingly comply.

They move in complicated arcs,

Drawing the mix into their fray.

I feel captive to the dance, whether participant,

Priest, or sacrifice I cannot tell,

Though long ago it must have been

For us, this ceremony was held.

From where I cannot move, I can see

The frenzied fragmented mass

Chanting and dancing around the fire,

On some high temple in the American jungles.

In my vision

Her, the high priestess, holds sway over them all,

As in a hollowed-out log over the fire

Coffee beans are crushed and burnt.

They port new offerings in bags of leaves,

And every addition elicits an ecstatic shout.

In union are the sounds, and my very breath,

No longer under my command, is compelled to move.

In a night without the moon’s light

She casts terrible over us all,

Snaring my fate, dooming me in all lives to come

To remain her captive.

Through her spell, she has ensured

Beans that are broken and burnt over the fire,

Cast in the same magic that held me bound,

Into my cup have now been found.

Across land and time, there will for me

Always be a cup such brewed.

This that I taste

Shall again seal my fate…

Sitting in this coffee shop am I

all to eager to submit.

----------------------------------------

But, Except, there is the doubt

That if I partake, no spell will take me,

Better to not be disappointed.

Besides that, I think my coffee’s cold.

@2004

Sean Harasymchuk
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There are Demons in My Coffee
