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There are Demons in My Coffee
by Sean Harasymchuk
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
Tags:
fiction
