When Hemingway writes
coffee
but doesn’t really
write about coffee
I crave it
Taste it
I smell it’s sorrow
And pour a cup
As the morning becomes I
And I the morning’s passing
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Tag Archives: coffee
another night
At the end of the day
I am nothing but
sweat and fat
and bad breath
and poems
strewn out among sage
and corkscrew, lighter, and coffee mug
wine and love for it all
all the things that I have carried
and still carry till this day
another night
another light
twinkling in the Friday night hysteria
of weekend fun
unseen.
peace.
All is quiet yet again
and I know what I must do
as if tasting coffee
for the first time
8:52
I drink slowly, carefully
cautiously
while sunlight enters the room
and from my window I can see
I am nothing
I am nothing more than
what I choose to be
and what I’ve chosen
this morning
is peace.
this old coffee shop
It’s all the same, all of it
except it’s all very different
from what I remember
it’s more or less weathered
the wall’s still orange
the bricks are still painted red
the music’s never stopped
it’s still sympathetic
in this old coffee shop
where I once roamed
head over heels
with everyone, though
I know it’s hard to believe
Rosie’s staring back at me
judging as if to say,
welcome back old friend —
now get the hell out of dodge!
when Whitman sings
I often hide the cover of the book
I’m reading,
commuting on the subway
or relaxing over coffee,
like anyone would care
either way, because yeah!
What if they did? They don’t.
But what if? And how does one explain
his book of choice, when more than not
the books I read give me no choice! Aha!
They’d label me pretentious, surely they should
but what if they didn’t?
Would I really have time for a friend,
when Whitman sings and celebrates self
Oh! You better believe I butt in.
A Common Conundrum
There
is a
brief
window
as a kid
where
they
don’t know
about
overtime
morning commute
time and a half
cut hours
nor should they,
because
they’re kids,
kids who need to let the adults speak
you tell them all the time
so
when
the kid’s
all grown up
and wants nothing to do with you
don’t forget
all
those
times
the kid
just wanted to play.
I’m still dealing with your ghost.
Please stop reading if you’ve heard this before.
It’s been 15 years since.
And I’m still holding onto a ghost.
15 god damn years.
And I’m still crying in a coffee shop.
I wasn’t even 15.
And you sure as hell weren’t a Boy Scout,
so who tied the noose?
I want to know what type of knot you used.
It’s been 15 years.
And I want answers.
Answers that I’ll never receive.
I want an apology.
You son-of-a-bitch.
How embarrassed you must have been.
I wasn’t even 15.
And they don’t even know the half of it.
And here I am again.
Wasting my energy on this endless sadness.
Because you couldn’t hack it.
Towards the end they say you were over medicated.
Well it’s been 15 years.
And it’s probably the reason I don’t even like to take aspirin.
It’s just that over 15 years it’s been hard to explain.
Like when you come right out and say it.
He. Committed. Suicide.
Kids used to awkwardly laugh at first and then realize I wasn’t lying.
And suddenly everyone’s sorry.
Suddenly I have to act sad.
Or act like it’s fine.
Nobody wants to see you break down in front of them.
Nobody wants to know your whole life story.
15 god damn years and I’m blubbering like a baby.
Screaming at the top of my lungs – drunk.
So if you’ve heard this before please stop reading.
Because I’m sure I’ve said it.
I’m as sure as I was 15 years ago.
Lost.
Because you don’t get custody after biting someone on the face.
And I don’t get answers.
I don’t get an apology.
Even after 15 years.
I’m still dealing with your ghost.
Words Of An Average White Male 