i thought maybe i had it
all set up the night before
but it s yesterdays
still coffee is the sun when i wake up
my various coffee experts would frown on me for doctoring yesterdays coffee
with a microwave, sugar and milk
but i made more
there really isnt an alternative
i finally got this tool i needed
saving me money
bank wires,and crazy landladies
all submerged under the water o f
my first few images
warmth of my dog
blanket with sand on it
now the coffee maker gurgles
i wanna cry, have for days
no reason
just moving again
please i cannot even commit to a kitchen if i have to keep moving
i need money, gee that is difffferent
cry cry cry
im fine dont worry i say
lie lie lie
coffeeee freash not yesterdays bullshit
and with that yesterdays bullshit is just that
yesterday
coffee
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coffee
reason is over rated, as is logic and common sense-i much prefer the passions of a crazy old woman, cats and dogs and jungle foliage- tropic rain-and a defined sense of who brings the stars up at night and the sun up in the morning---
Re: coffee
day old coffee is an excellent metaphor for taste of the past that is often bitter or sour, or at least....not fresh.........good work c-soul
If you do not change your direction
you may end up where you are heading
you may end up where you are heading
Re: coffee
I always drink yesterday’s coffee, my friend
(I’m frugal, not picky that way)—
I mix it with moments that follow and blend
its memory into today.
I don’t take the patience to brew a new taste
or pleasure ignoring the past
and therefore drop in on the coffee I’d waste
and wonder how long it might last.
But this is my friend— my dark daybreak— my cup
that brims overflowing— my life;
and this, my green pasture when mountains erupt,
my rod and my staff and my knife—
yes, this is the friend in the morning I’ve had
and I’m not sure who’ll friend me today
and it’s fear, yes, I drink—and it’s stale—still I’m glad
I’m frugal, not picky that way.
(I’m frugal, not picky that way)—
I mix it with moments that follow and blend
its memory into today.
I don’t take the patience to brew a new taste
or pleasure ignoring the past
and therefore drop in on the coffee I’d waste
and wonder how long it might last.
But this is my friend— my dark daybreak— my cup
that brims overflowing— my life;
and this, my green pasture when mountains erupt,
my rod and my staff and my knife—
yes, this is the friend in the morning I’ve had
and I’m not sure who’ll friend me today
and it’s fear, yes, I drink—and it’s stale—still I’m glad
I’m frugal, not picky that way.
"Every genuinely religious person is a heretic, and therefore a revolutionary" -- GBShaw
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