Welcome To The Coffee Shop

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Welcome To The Coffee Shop ©


(Kyla G. Bingham, Oct-Nov 2014)


Welcome to the coffee shop. I’m your barista; please allow me to tell you about the menu.


Our house blend is an acquired fondness—quite bold and assertive—so if your tastes are delicate, I hope it doesn’t offend you.


Give it a chance to play on your tongue, refine your palate; don’t just hastily spit it out.


If you take a moment to savor its flavor and let it give you a jolt, it might just save you a carafe of complications and a decanter full of doubt.


Don’t turn away—this is no time for feigning ambivalence, rolling your eyes, being complacent.


If you’ll swallow the potion I’m offering, you’ll avoid a lifetime of serious debasement.


So please feel free to cozy up to the bar or find yourself a seat.


Or since we’ll be here for a bit perhaps you’ll prefer to warm yourself by the fire…go ahead and make yourself at home—kick off your shoes and prop up your feet.


Now that you’re settled, as I said this’ll take a minute because some things are percolating, some heavy truths are boiling over, ready to be spoken.


Like the fact that you keep listening to the seductive hiss and rattle of tantalizing words that quickly become promises broken.


Why? Why did you think that just because his kettle whistled for you that he was ready to fill your heart to overflowing like the fruition of your every dream?


Turns out he was just passing air through his lips so now you’re pissed and blowing steam.                 


Did you somehow think that giving everyone a dollop of your cream would make you more mature?


I’m sorry, love, but that reverie is curdled, and you are your own worst saboteur.


You fell for a sultry French kiss and a full body press.


And now like the potent, dark liquid that flows through a French press, your dignity is slowly drip, drip, dripping and pooling on the floor with your eagerly and easily discarded dress.


You give it up so easily so what do you expect?


Offering it all and passing out samples of your “cup of Joe” to every John so now all you have is a double shot of misery and a venti sized serving of disrespect.


Your java is interchangeable; they don’t care if you’re caramel, mocha, espresso or chai.


They just want the flavor of the day—don’t forget to add the whipped cream and chocolate syrup—drink you down and then a fast goodbye.


Wipe his mouth, then wad you up and discard you with the trash.


Then get back in line for another mouthful of low self-esteem and decisions that are rash.


What’s that in the bakery display case? Yeah, go head and wrap up a sticky bun and a scone.


Cuz as long as he feigns attention, nibbling on your confections and affections, you just won’t leave it alone.


By the way, this ain’t the only location he frequents—seems every corner has a franchise.


Here he’s a banker, there he’s a baller—he’s a sultan of subterfuge and a doyen of disguise.


And you keep falling for the ruse not realizing that doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome is the textbook definition of insanity.


Maybe you’re perfectly matched because you’re the queen of SSDD which leads to pregnancy and STD and the loss of your very humanity.


You need to snap out of it, change your M.O., and have a little bit of pride.


Because at the rate girls like you are going, it’s becoming self-inflicted “gendercide.


Now look at you all upset, froth just foaming from your lips.


Rabid because you should have made him buy the mug instead of handing out all those free testers and sips.


Did you even think to use a coaster? No, you didn’t. I see the evidence of your negligence in the form of rings of condensation.


You just charge through the chute like a mare to be mounted and totally skip the need for mental sublimation.


You don’t even bother with cognitive stimulation.


Don’t know the intense pleasure of a demitasse of tea with a side of penetrating conversation.


Perhaps you should consider falling in love between your ears instead of lust below your waist.


Perchance then you won’t have so many experiences you wish could be erased.


Your baseless carnality is empty…a study in ineffectuality.


There’s so much deeper and more lasting fulfillment in being an out and proud proponent of sapiosexuality.       


But you refuse to think first, you’re stuck in a loop of reckless action then regret that can at best be called illogical.


Actually, it’s beyond that; it’s a disease, and your behavior is pathological.


Once the deed is done, you can’t undo it no matter how you beg, steal or borrow.


It’s the unchangeable unilateral flow of time: it’s impossible to rewind to yesterday, and there be no such thing as tomorrow.


So there you have it, the straight, unsweetened brew, and though it was bitter and acidic, I hope you listened up and banked it.


Because there are no refunds on a beverage once you already drank it.


But sadly most ignore the expert suggestions of their well-meaning barista; the say she’s abrasive and curt.


They disregard that she’s studied well the proffered libations and human inclinations to opt for the cloyingly sweet—and so she helplessly watches as they reap the ensuing world of hurt.


Now you’re shattered on the ground, tears spilling and spreading all around like the fluid caffeine from a broken coffee cup.


No, you can’t change your mind and listen now.  Sorry the bell has already rung. Next in line, and as for you, “order up”.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is the first totally new poem I've written in about a year. I hope you enoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Cool



View eleutheria0501's Full Portfolio

This Is Wrong

Our chairs are facing each other

Great inches apart, mere worlds away

Our eyes are stuck on one another

So I close in on her with no delay


Music is playing but all vibrations stop in the room

The fan is blowing quietly but inside I feel a monsoon

Each centimeter moved is a stride as I burst from my cocoon

Our lips delicately converge on this most glorious night in June


As our mouths move slowly it drains from me

All of my, um, what's that word again, let me see

A word that means to speak good, 

Swell? Well? Oh hell.


The seconds pass too quickly when

I get this sudden, um, not again..

A word that means like, to feel, 

but physical, like your nerves, you know, real


Anyway, this feeling, it feels good

I can't name it either, I'd tell you if I could

A word that means like super happy, 

It's also the name of a drug, LSD?


My mind stops working, it's falling apart

But we've got this, connection? No. Ugh, brain fart.

It's like a connection, means we're in sync.

I'd tell you the word, but I just can't think.


Suddenly she pulls away and opens her eyes

I start to breath again like I've never done it before

Oxygen hits my brain, rebooting, it comes as a surprise

The words I couldn't remember returning once more


Articulation! Sensation! Ecstacy! Rapport!

These terms once unattainable, now creatively pour

The poetry came back to me, "An artist again!" I roar

Until I see her gaze searching along the floor


I reach out and tightly grip the small of her back

I feel my IQ dropping fast, my poet's mind starts to crack


I swiftly pull her closer and place her on my lap

The words leave me again as my wisdom turns to crap


Our lips reunite and my heart takes a leap

But at the same second my brain goes back to sleep


As her tank top flies out of my hand and softly hits the ground

I feel my brain blink off, it just completely shuts down


I feel braindead now, but I can't stop. Should I try it?

You know what, fuck it. My body can work on autopilot

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This was my third attempt at a piece for a poetry slam I'm going to try my skills at soon. The first two I liked, this one I was hesitant about. It's one of those ones you have to go back and reread. I feel like the verbal performance wouldn't do it justice.

View ribbin's Full Portfolio

Short Verse #8

A thousand years ago, I could have been working in a store in a small shack of a large town. Still having people then whisper in my ear the earth was flat, and that my place was there, sweeping the floor. The point of that would be as clear as the sky before indistury. Life, is only expierenced through the beholder of that person, That conciousness. Call it a soul, Pin it to a religion, spiritual or even atheisim. The one thing you cannot question, or doubt is your power to manifest your thoughts into actions. The power to comphrened that you are infact a Living Creature who has the compasity to think, learn, adapt. The ONLY known speicies who can contemplate the genocide of an entire world and the stars above them......

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just a little thing that jumped into my head. Plus it has been awhile since I posted anything, been busy working and writing haha

View matthewwayne's Full Portfolio


Like a shiny demigod, you stand here before me with unconcerned eyes beaming down into the depths of all I am, but you’re blind and I can’t seem to find the will to help you-- I don’t care to. I’ll let you struggle and always think you know when even I can’t know. There’s a dynamic flow in everything and it’s everywhere, but still from somewhere a selfish, stagnant force fights for dictation, and gets stuck at ideation. We get stuck at identification and separate you from me. We’re isolating and decimating, contemplating and waiting for some external action to save us.
Failing to see the unity, schisms fracture Love and disrupt Peace. Quakes of arrogant desire believe their imagined lies to confine their own lives strict within the cage of fearful ignorance, securing us in sensation and fenced in selective cohesion. Reason is a thing oft in neglect, associated with only the intellect, a mere man, amassing “facts.” Think about your knowledge and realize it’s aged, already stale (naturally technique and recipe remain). We can’t know NOW, and therefore can’t measure it. With no labels, now is new, infinitely unknown… This is now. This is all there is and all I am, but not me. There is no will, therefore no actor. There is no I… There is this moment….and here, accordance with the harmony of reality occurs. “I” don’t love. Here, there is Love, Peace, and Freedom, the lack of all self. Nothing is here, but here is everything.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

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