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Smothered MotherA spit on the face
A punch in the heart
She's so amazed
But she also tears apart
'Cause of so much evil,
Lots of cruelty
He seems the devil
Is it her duty?
Her duty to hold on?
To take all of this or should she run?
Run from her own son?
I hear knives stabbing deep on her soul
Try to stop them but they've already perforated
He keeps pushing them to hurt her more
& my anger keeps growing all along
Wish I could shut him up, wish he'd go away
Wish he would regret everything he says
But he won't,
Until his mother has gone
The damage is all done
What is it in what he has become?
He's not ashamed
He's no other than my brother
Looking on my mother's cheeks the tears
She's so full of fears
Fears that her "beloved baby" has put over her
We're going nowhere
But this hell we gotta stop
& try to reach the top,
To reach seven
Which means perfect, means peace, means heaven
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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