Last week, I rescued some old files from a derelict Macintosh LC that has been sitting idle in the corner for years. It had a bunch of files that I had written during my University days, which included lyrics, poetry, book manuscripts, term papers, and even some long-lost art. Through the miracle of backwards-compatibility, emulation software, and some ingenious new freeware, I managed to convert all the documents into a more modern format. Here for your reading pleasure, is a tale about some old friends of mine, the Craigs' Coffee Gang.
My first blog entry about the Craigs' Coffee Gang can be found here. As I stated back then, A Tale of Two Coffees was written on the eve I moved away to University. It was a prophecy of sorts; what happened to all my friends since I had been away all those weeks. Amazingly enough, much of the prophecy came true.
Last year, Craigs' Way Station, the truck stop where we consumed limitless quantities of stimulants, was torn down. All that remains is an empty lot, and a lot of good memories. To immortalize Craigs', here is A Tale of Two Coffees. Part Two will eventually be published here, when (and if) it is ever completed.
A Tale of Two Coffees
Walking in eternities' door, the stench of Death in the air,
Returning from my escape, from helpless pain and despair,
The faces I see I recognize, like something out of a dream,
And I am thrown in a backward spiral, as I have the urge to scream,
Every day of the year, at the same place and at the same time,
You pay your rent; a dollar and a dime,
I come back to life, returning to bitter pain and rage,
And I see your eyes and I realize -- nothing seems to change.
You go there every day, or else they'll say they'll treat you with unheard of conviction,
And that potent mix of caffeine and smoke's got you like a crazy addiction,
And as I glance at that familiar face, and beauty I cannot compare,
My feelings return, and how they burn with rage I cannot bear,
So I sit down and I mingle, as if I were here yesterday,
And you tell me those lies as I look to the skies that remain a familiar grey,
But I hurt even more as you say you're living with the one who is deranged,
I chose not to hear, because I greatly fear that my feelings haven't changed.
For it seems like twenty years I've been gone from these bowels of hell,
It's been quite a while, but I see and I smile at the one that's from Grenfell,
She's happy to see me although I can see the pain expressed in her frown,
She says her life's not been fun, because she's still on the run from the man from her hometown,
She said "I miss you" and "I love you" in a more platonic way,
But I knew the feeling had more meaning that what a thousand words could say,
And she told me her life's more messed up than the chairs and tables arranged,
Her words were few, but I already knew her life hadn't changed.
Then there was that man and oh, what a unique character was he,
Though his hair was long, he'd prove you wrong, for an artist was what he'd be.
He was there every day, drinking away, at the infamous table seven,
He said "Green Day Stunk" but he loved punk for it was his musical heaven,
So friendly was he, for every face he'd make would send you into a hysterical laugh,
But nothing would compare to the way we stared the day he got hired for staff.
But in debt he is now, owing the world for the costs of his financial aid,
But my jaw still drops in this coffee shop at how even he, hadn't changed.
Ninety-five is alive, and what a year it was,
For we stood at the door to the rest of the world after receiving our diplomas,
So that brings me to her, for her every word had some sort of sexual connotation,
But she would say in her uplifting way "We all have our dreams and aspirations".
Her hopes were up but her luck was down, and now she's in some sleazy musical,
And I could tell very well, even her success wasn't fruitful,
So as I try to mend the heart of my friend, full of feelings I cannot explain,
I knew she was helpless despite her attempts, her life didn't change.
Missing from this place was a face which wasn't all too common,
But reports from the group said that he wasn't alone and solemn,
They said that the geek was here last week, visiting the Coffee Regs,
And he serenaded them all with a poem he call "The Great Canadian Coffee Shop: Craigs'".
We thought he was okay, but we'd always say he was too smart for his own damn good,
And although we knew he'd never shut up, we secretly wished he would,
But for sitting there for over ten hours would drive me mentally crazed,
He must be nuts to drink seven pots for even he hadn't changed.
And I stare at the last face, sitting secluded in the corner,
She was working diligently away in her book with the tribal art border,
"You've been gone but not forgotten." she happily said to me,
"We miss you, and we speak of you like some sort of eulogy."
But if I state that she get she get Opiate, She'd reply that she only had Undertow,
And when I asked her about the man she's after, she'd sigh "Oh, I just don't know".
You can't have one without the other, like Smack and Alice In Chains,
She sacrificed her future for the shop, because she knew she'd never change.
There are others there, but they stare at me like I'm some sort of outcast,
They go there often, but I know they will never, ever last,
And at first we laughed at those geezers who would come again, and again,
But now the more I realize, we are becoming them.
My visit is done, and I try to run from the fiery pits of Hell,
Yet I can't run away since almighty Craig's in the way saying he has my soul to sell,
I never asked for this, and I do not deserve this, and I wonder who was the first to blame,
But here we are, we bear the scars, trapped in a hell that will never change.
Originally Written 1995/09/01
Walking in eternities' door, the stench of Death in the air,
Returning from my escape, from helpless pain and despair,
The faces I see I recognize, like something out of a dream,
And I am thrown in a backward spiral, as I have the urge to scream,
Every day of the year, at the same place and at the same time,
You pay your rent; a dollar and a dime,
I come back to life, returning to bitter pain and rage,
And I see your eyes and I realize -- nothing seems to change.
You go there every day, or else they'll say they'll treat you with unheard of conviction,
And that potent mix of caffeine and smoke's got you like a crazy addiction,
And as I glance at that familiar face, and beauty I cannot compare,
My feelings return, and how they burn with rage I cannot bear,
So I sit down and I mingle, as if I were here yesterday,
And you tell me those lies as I look to the skies that remain a familiar grey,
But I hurt even more as you say you're living with the one who is deranged,
I chose not to hear, because I greatly fear that my feelings haven't changed.
For it seems like twenty years I've been gone from these bowels of hell,
It's been quite a while, but I see and I smile at the one that's from Grenfell,
She's happy to see me although I can see the pain expressed in her frown,
She says her life's not been fun, because she's still on the run from the man from her hometown,
She said "I miss you" and "I love you" in a more platonic way,
But I knew the feeling had more meaning that what a thousand words could say,
And she told me her life's more messed up than the chairs and tables arranged,
Her words were few, but I already knew her life hadn't changed.
Then there was that man and oh, what a unique character was he,
Though his hair was long, he'd prove you wrong, for an artist was what he'd be.
He was there every day, drinking away, at the infamous table seven,
He said "Green Day Stunk" but he loved punk for it was his musical heaven,
So friendly was he, for every face he'd make would send you into a hysterical laugh,
But nothing would compare to the way we stared the day he got hired for staff.
But in debt he is now, owing the world for the costs of his financial aid,
But my jaw still drops in this coffee shop at how even he, hadn't changed.
Ninety-five is alive, and what a year it was,
For we stood at the door to the rest of the world after receiving our diplomas,
So that brings me to her, for her every word had some sort of sexual connotation,
But she would say in her uplifting way "We all have our dreams and aspirations".
Her hopes were up but her luck was down, and now she's in some sleazy musical,
And I could tell very well, even her success wasn't fruitful,
So as I try to mend the heart of my friend, full of feelings I cannot explain,
I knew she was helpless despite her attempts, her life didn't change.
Missing from this place was a face which wasn't all too common,
But reports from the group said that he wasn't alone and solemn,
They said that the geek was here last week, visiting the Coffee Regs,
And he serenaded them all with a poem he call "The Great Canadian Coffee Shop: Craigs'".
We thought he was okay, but we'd always say he was too smart for his own damn good,
And although we knew he'd never shut up, we secretly wished he would,
But for sitting there for over ten hours would drive me mentally crazed,
He must be nuts to drink seven pots for even he hadn't changed.
And I stare at the last face, sitting secluded in the corner,
She was working diligently away in her book with the tribal art border,
"You've been gone but not forgotten." she happily said to me,
"We miss you, and we speak of you like some sort of eulogy."
But if I state that she get she get Opiate, She'd reply that she only had Undertow,
And when I asked her about the man she's after, she'd sigh "Oh, I just don't know".
You can't have one without the other, like Smack and Alice In Chains,
She sacrificed her future for the shop, because she knew she'd never change.
There are others there, but they stare at me like I'm some sort of outcast,
They go there often, but I know they will never, ever last,
And at first we laughed at those geezers who would come again, and again,
But now the more I realize, we are becoming them.
My visit is done, and I try to run from the fiery pits of Hell,
Yet I can't run away since almighty Craig's in the way saying he has my soul to sell,
I never asked for this, and I do not deserve this, and I wonder who was the first to blame,
But here we are, we bear the scars, trapped in a hell that will never change.
Originally Written 1995/09/01
No comments:
Post a Comment