Unconventional Breakfast Rituals (American Norms)

Coffee

that's just so freshly
brewed—

none other than

by
yourself,

once you stood up—
self-driven

American
morns—or

silver afternoons,

a nice mug for it..

(or some type of vessel)

accompanied by one's favorite 90s

music lineup & something for

the ears,

(like determining unduly cast away earworms)

during

the last week of September
and for the months after—

..could be an enjoyable sip

(farther, once more, in our roundabouts)

—could be a nice start

Coffee Lullaby

A tea drinker always. A proud tea drinker. I’m not a coffee drinker. Never understood it. It hurt my stomach to drink. It fouled my mouth. It just doesn’t taste good.  Burnt and acidic.  Just not my cup of tea. Until…Larry’s French Frenchy pour over made for me in a small apartment kitchen by a man that carried his coffee making equipment 4000 then another 3000 miles from the West Coast to Italy to China to finally little ole Raleigh, NC.   And said, “This Larry’s Frenchy French is by far the best coffee I’ve had. You have to try it.”

“But, I don’t drink coffee.”

“Just try a sip.”

Just a sip. I drank the whole cup. He had to make more.

I so understand it now. My cup of tea still warms me in the morning, still sooths me at night, but a cup of coffee brightens the day.  Ends an evening with chocolate. Conjoins a couple at brunch. It wakes me up, almost too much that I curse it at 4 am when I can’t sleep.  But does that stop me from drinking it? No. Its my excuse to stop at that apartment.  Its my reason to shop the fancy kitchen stores, to search for the perfect carafe, the perfect pour over and maybe a French press, for the shelf appeal.

A sip of coffee is so grown up, a mature taste like wine, or a cigar and bourbon, which I have tried. Bourbon can substitute for dessert, I’m that grown up. With a cup of coffee, of course.

So, now I have ventured into learning to make it right. A consistent measuring devise for both the coffee and the water has been my learning curve. An ancient Tupperware 1 tablespoon measuring spoon, separated over time from its fellow spoons, has beaten all the coffee scoops lauded by Amazon. A consistent swipe of the grounds after a shake back into the spoon produces the right amount for the grounds.  And a gooseneck pitcher, and the right temperature.  Never boiled, just up to boil. I do 195 on my electric kettle then pour the water into the pitcher then pour over the grounds and between all that, the temperature seems to work. Seems to work. I have yet to decide though on the method of the pour.  Drown it or go around the perimeter, pour just in the center or chase around the coffee ground islands in the middle of your coffee filter world? This is where I continue my work on the making of a consistently good cup of coffee. 

Apartment man says, “Pour it so it comes to you.”  

Huh? I think I need a demonstration.

And another cup of coffee. 

Nothing like that fresh brewed smell

of coffee in the morning

I suppose that you can tell

it's also very warming

Frost lies on my windowsill

From winter's frozen rain

Makes waking up now just too hard

And looking out a pain

Because inside is nice and warm

With coffee or coco

Perhaps I'll just go back to sleep

And dream about the snow.

A smell in mind

Coffee was an important part of my teacher’s day. No matter where you went, you could always see a big coffee mug with her name on it, quite literally. Be it a warm day, rainy day, a cold day or any day at all, you could always count on going to class and getting hit with the scent of coffee wafting through the room. She’d be late to classes sometimes, getting her coffee first. There needn’t be any sugar or creamer, all it took was a mug and coffee time was on. When life was tough, coffee was the one thing that kept her holding on to dear life. Through the various trips, the school visits, our concert trips to Austin and Mexico City, the coffee was there. A single coffee and breakfast was the reason why we missed our flight the first time. Even when we were at the airport, we had to had coffee. It was like a religion, drinking coffee every day. Starbucks, Dunkin’ Donuts, Krispy Kreme, Cinnabon, the brand wasn’t important, even if it was too big of a pay. A thing that made her happy was when people brought her coffee. It would instantly brighten up her day, even if they got the complete order wrong. “Coffee is coffee and my day isn’t complete without coffee,” she would say every day. Be warned, though, that the day she hadn’t had coffee, she could either love you or kill you. How can I forget about that mug in the front of the classroom, standing on a desk where she had been sitting, steaming the whole class, filling up the room with a small that will be unmistakable to me until the day I’m gone? On particularly cold days, she’d even bring a refill or send one of us to get it. The more I think about it, the less I can imagine her without a coffee mug or without drinking coffee for a full day. She used to joke about it being the center of her life, the defining factor in the day. Forget clothes, when her birthday was around, all of her students would be looking for crazy colorful mugs!  How can I enter a coffee shop and not think about the strong coffee smell that had so long ago permeated my mind? Alas, I cannot drink a cup of coffee without thinking about how much she’d love to have the same type of coffee too!

Coffee Talk

"This is it,

the last time.

Not my last time,

for there will be many more,

but before I go,

take a second.

Or two.

As though leaving a humble abode

for the last time.

Or realistically,

one to be proud of,

one no need for humility.

A tendency to be crass, 

the one-stop coffeeshop 

that was the first building

foot stepped in,

the exact final destination

of a journey

across from

one Ocean to the next.

First impressions,

wild differences between

vernacular and tone,

'shaka brah', 

and an immediate inquiry

as to where the hell

I come from.

Brash,

but immediately warm

the very first contact

turned out to be,

only to observe

more than a year of stumbles,

pieces scribbled,

baristas in and out,

one to be a brother

calling this location

headquarters,

locomotives blaring by

in a flash of red

everyday.

Bicentennial

the count not of years,

but of poetic conveyance,

written in the soft glow

of this shop,

this shop the subject

times so often giving

detail to who,

what, where,

and how that one girl,

that one time,

smelt as she walked by.

Edited,

the time spent 

since the Spring,

but some things never change,

and that's how at home

I feel in this booth.

Bottoms up,

here's to you,

one last brew,

one last time. 

No more lines

to be written

here,

skate to the next place,

though it won't be the same."

"The coffee shop,

where in the middle of the block,

it had started;

where they met.

Their headquarters,

where they rested

over iced drinks

after a long skate.

Old friends,

young men,

two, not the same blood

or kin

shake hands 

and embrace the others grin,

a tight squeeze

given to each. 

Brothers,

such a tight bond

with so little time,

sealed the deal

of interlocking

storylines,

adventures and shared 

scrapes.

Escaping near death,

falling off boards onto wrists,

downhill descent

screaming past parked cars,

wherein that itself

is a rare occurance

when once was daily.

Temperature varied,

as did the places they'd

hunker down,

sweating,

stopping to have a drink.

Seperated by little,

attached at the hip,

it seemed. Until

life happened,

having sent the older 

away for summmer,

the younger away for the rest,

testing himself and his brain.

Drumming away,

marching on by,

the two had lives 

blur on by, 

spiraling in different directions,

story arcs and sidequests,

conquests coloring the night,

but by and by, 

when guest apperances

would transpire,

everything dropped

to meet one another,

the bond was made stronger

with the short time

it had to cure.

Not to say

neither were lost,

but both stepped in confidence.

Always looking ahead,

but once they were together,

unspoken,

to each love was gave.

Brotherly love,

concrete waves."

"A visit at my table, 

a very welcome visitor,

has a cup of coffee

set down,

but not before

the friend has seated herself

does the surface 

of the brew spill over,

splashing quietly 

as as she bumps the table with her knee.

Such a detail,

the dark, dark liquid

spread across the light brown

wood of where I write,

threatening to soil

the art being drawn.

The spillings

of the latest happenings,

the earnest devouring

of each others stories

lead to reading,

of depicting the next best thing

in lives still be finished,

download in progress.

A spiral

from one image to the next

from the warm-lit coffee shop

to digital acquisition.

Like this poem,

the conversation goes,

topics spiraling.

Not out of control,

but wildly different

in varient,

from the new job

made of dreams

to the steaming progress

of artwork creativity.

Reading,

the visitor stirring

with silent smiles

and sparkling eyes,

asking how and why

my poetry winds

into art so quickly,

but my answer is clumsy,

the failing of conveying

a real reason

for words written.

Awkward in handling it,

and unable still

to write out the soul

in one sentence,

stanza,

poem,

book, even. 

So let's write three,

I tell her,

and glee is sounded,

rounding back to her departure,

bumping coffee again.

But it's wiped away,

no evidence

of the one who sat across.

Nothing lost.

Meaning, rather.

No theme,

but a underlying feeling."