COFFEE EXISTENCE

Coffee is the only evidence that I exist.
Gentrification arsenals could be this:
“Venti” “Fettuccine” “Lamborghini” —

Requesting “Small” “Medium” or “Large”
could get you the stank-eye in this
societal espresso of artery-thumping rushes.

The mermaid jumps out of the sign, be
-mused, moo’d, entirely linked to
Outside Forces? I look up:

Black Coffee Down! I look around:
Jungle Fever Frappucinos. Do not frown.
Pants are cutting off circulation

& that is the true meaning of butt-hurt.
“He’s half of a fireman,” she said,
bc warning labels were missing on the cup.

Coffee slaves smacks of an impressive
third of them at the fresh-point
where medication wears off,

as if one could reawaken like Sebetos,
then those supposed “special discounts”
that I never received, & I might just riot,

I’m going to riot like Egyptians, like
hipsters busting off backpack straps, bc
I’m fluent in Baristanese & I’ve realized that

Everything that is “completed”
is “ready at the bar” (except for the
coolness of jazz; a future torturé to codify).

Listen to your heart quoting fortuity.
The lamp-oil burns & everything that we are
is abbreviated. ST for Strawberry. C for Cream.

That is what I heard him say, but I
believe it. “Don’t make me feel old.”
Coffee freezes when lovers are together.