The Coffee Shop

The Coffee Shop

 

The lamp burns dim on the chipped walls of the café,

spilling light from broken fixtures

like sacred stars shuddering on stark wooden floors,

trampled by the feet of souls going

no where in particular.

 

People from all backgrounds drink themselves from

hot mugs steaming with self importance,

speaking with those from other backgrounds.

no one realizing that there is

no such thing as the self.

no one realizing that there is only

one

background.

 

Words float back and forth, back and forth

echoing the trivial din of empty ideas

thought but never tried:

feigned philosophies proposed

but never practiced.

 

 

Conversations flood the air, all talking, but

none listening.

not one listening, except to their own voice

drumming and droning in their head.

drowning in the beat of their own drum.

 

Ceramic mugs scattered, cracked and chipped,

shattered like the attention of the professor

speaking to his dissatisfied wife, talking,

but thinking only of publishing prophecies

to impress the limited taste of the academy.

 

While she, thinks only of the barista

grinding coffee beans and sliding them

into the silver metal machines,

waiting for the timer to erupt

in a symphony of climax.

 

A college couple in the corner,

her, sharing the sob story of her tragic, tragic, life,

wanting the affection that she deserves but never had

while he, collar popped and pressed,

pretends to be interested, only to sneak

recurring glances at her pushed up breasts.

 

Concealed in the corner, wishing for sleep,

the insomniac stares into an empty void,

eyes black bagged and desperate, eyes

stuck in a bad dream, unable to wake up

to reality.

 

Beaten, abandoned, and abused,

the homeless man in torn linen outside the door

sits in tatters,

sits on cardboard and newspaper scattered,

hallucinating nightmarish visions of a white picket fence,

a car, and three kids.

 

Haunted by images, of images

of images, of a life like those inside:

ignorance ignited by a pompous sense of importance,

a flawed conception of individuality, asserting

that they are unique, unique, unique.

 

And only the prophet swaddled in

rags of poverty has the vision

to perceive people as they are, to

see all people as one person, all persons

as one people, all driven by wants, and the vital need to

Feel that none are as important as I.

That none are unique, and none exist,

The way

that

I

exist.

Reviews

[Kaylor Mason]

Wow! I read this and the first thing I thought was whoever wrote this has a deep understanding of what it means to be a wallflower. One of the coolest things any writer can do is merely sit in a room quietly, turn himself a bit invisible, and study and analyze the people around him. The homeless man in rags is doubly able to do this, for the customers are unable to stare at him for too long, much more preferring that he would darken someone else's doorstep. They're ashamed to look at him, even admit he's there, while he gets an incredible insight into all their characters merely by their reactions to him. I love the theme of this--only the homeless vagabond has the vision to perceive people as they are, and not as those people perceive themselves. Writers can do that to, sometimes; it's a big part of our job. I also loved the atmosphere of this poem, the imagery, and the fact that it was written in free-verse. This Free-verse makes it all the more real and makes the smoky atmosphere seep into your very skin as you read it. Nice work :)

[Avril Zombie]

Very amazing work I must say. :) I enjoyed every last bit and no doubt I'll definitely be reading it again.

[lee von cleef]

I am not sure I like this poem. But who likes to look into their reflection? Thank you for spooling out life through the Coffee house collage.

[AK]

Very well written!

[Shadows of Memories]

Your poem completely accomplishes the ambience of a coffee shop...as if you are not writing a poem but painting a picture, or more precisely a small documentary film. I don't know if you know it at all, I can relate this to another contemporary Bengali song ( Bengali = one of the prominent Indian languages) which gives the same imagery, sung by a famous singer Manna Dey. At first I thought you are from my country and so trying to translate it and share the beauty of the song across the world. But I could see, I was wrong! Anyway, you are just awesome to create the perfect mood and ambience for this particular poem. Liked it so much. keep sharing more :)

[emmajoy]

This is a gigantic leap against Mankind! Albeit beautifully created words, they put down society's billion faults and failings, highlight its too often arrogance and indifference. Tis true the prophet swaddled in rags could be the only one to seel however, it's also people who are aware of that fact and highlight it in poetry and prose to make others think.

The stanza about the homeless man .. too true, tragic.

Your stream of descriptions is very sharp, distinct, but then characters like those love to display themselves and you've allowed them to - especially here,

' .. the professor
speaking to his dissatisfied wife, talking,
but thinking only of publishing prophecies
to impress the limited taste of the academy.

While she, thinks only of the barista
grinding coffee beans and sliding them
into the silver metal machines,
waiting for the timer to erupt
in a symphony of climax.'

[Sabrina Claridge]

Made me feel as if I was there. Powerful. Really enjoyed this.