I grew up with the silly idea
That boys would write poetry
For the girl in the back of the coffeeshop.

It’s far from romantic
The countless times I’ve walked that road,
Entered that C- bakery,
And rested my elbows on a wobbly table.
Once, I twisted my ankle,
Caked my jeans in mud and embarrassment.
Another time, I fell in a puddle.
Nobody helped me up or dried me off.
Hundreds of dollars wasted on cheap coffee
That only kept me up long enough
To realise how low I was.

I wrote poems for boys in the coffeeshop,
Adam and all the rest.
They didn’t write any for me.

he and i met up at my place
and chilled and talked for a bit.
i began to feel warmth as i listened to his voice,
then looked at his smile,
his eyes,
his dimple on his cheek.
i gave him his gift:
a t-shirt from his favorite band and album.
he said thank you as he continued smiling,
and it made me feel warmer than i was before.

moments later,
we walked to the green line.
i was going to take him to
one of my favorite coffee shops in the west loop.
he told me that we would probably be late to get in.
the coffee shop closes at 5 while
we got on the train at around 3:40.
i told him that we were gonna make it.
i was surprised i would be the optimistic one
since i was a huge load of a pessimist from the past week.
luckily, we got to the coffeeshop an hour before it closed.
he ordered a cappuccino,
i ordered myself a hot chocolate.
we then grabbed our drinks and found a table
in a faraway corner near the restrooms
and began our conversation from there.
it was a nice one and i still felt the same amount of warmth
as i looked and listened to him.
i knew that he had a girlfriend
and that i shouldn't keep my hopes up,
but ****, is he a gem.
i just couldn't help myself.
i was also kind of surprised how we kept looking at each other
in the eyes for long periods of time.
don't know if that's a sign or anything, but, it would be frequent.

an hour later, we decided to head out to my place again.
i took some pictures of him outside the coffeeshop
with my 35mm camera and laughed when i
saw a customer almost photobombing my photo
through the window.
minutes passed and we were already back at the green line,
waiting for the train to arrive.
the sunset was so amazing,
but seeing the view of him made it better.

we made it back to my place
and relaxed for a bit once again.
he remembered that he saw a bass guitar
leaning against the wall and asked
if he can play it.
it wasn't mine but i asked one of my roommates
if he can play it and he said as long as he knows
how to set it up.
he, of course, knew since he plays bass himself.

i heard the notes he played and i began to feel mesmerized
with every note that he played.
although his rhythm was a bit off since he
wasn't used to my roommate's bass,
he was still pretty good.
the low frequencies coming from the bass amplifier
softly vibrated my ears as i was hypnotized by
his fingers moving as he presses on each fret.
i guess the vibrations made me feel a bit warm, too.

the day finally ends as i was about to walk him out of my dorm.
when we got to the front door and before he left,
he said thanks again for the gift.
and then he hugged me.
he hugged me.
i finally felt his warmth for a second or two.
it was a friendly hug, but, it still felt nice.

i remember him saying it would be cool if he can hang
every other weekend when i'm free.
i'm gonna keep that promise for sure.

Getting lost
in the Coffeeshop Quartet.
Birring grinders and steamy explosions
chattering friends- coffee tinged emotions.
Everyone's exploring with their faces upbeat,
a little bubble of warmth against the cold harsh street.

Today I found myself in this coffeeshop
Its not actually my thing
I always thought it's impractical and just a waste of what little fortune I have
But I needed to get out
Have a breathe of fresh air
Much needed walk
See humans
Hear them talk
At least
While I
Alone with my thoughts
Not a single audible word
Though there were few interactions
Glimpses
Minimal smiles from the crew
Some thoughts still suffocates me
Especially when I think about
How I am just nothing to you
How it all was just wishful thinking
How it had all ended before we even begun
How it was all just for fun
And when I caught myself
Drifting in these toxic thoughts
I get back to my reality
Alone but not totally lonely
I just have to get used to this
Be comfortable in my solitude
Learning to enjoy this process
Of self exploration
And mastering the art of letting go.

maybe the buildings are hollow,
occupied only in facade on the first floor of storefronts

maybe this whole town is a hologram
of neon against puddles
on the pavement.

maybe the citizens are ghosts
floating by
in circles, or squares of city blocks,
around a routine,
or droning through on electric scooters
as if on muted theme park rides
to the next sensory diversion;
to the nearest gastronomical pleasure;
toward the weekend and its next party
celebrating the loss of time,
I see their tired faces

staring out from the glass
of coffeeshop windows
on every block.
I see their piles of beer cans
beside the trash chute.
I hear them singing
on *****-cruises to nowhere

What part of this cycle
that turns days into dust
moves us closer to heaven?

What feast from what new restaurant downtown
will feed our souls?

From which lonely night do we finally emerge
beside the one
whose presence fills
these hollow buildings
to the top-most floors?

Which of the empty lots
between us do we fill
with a conversation
about how this is all a dream,
or how we'll keep each other awake
on a bench
beneath a street lamp before dawn
waiting for the first bus to take us home.

coffee in the night wakes me for the evening,
sipping as I listen to cool tunes
from the lady strummer sooth,
oh the taste of a nice fresh brew,
potent and dark, the caffeine streams
through blood to the brain,
nice quick buzzbuzzbee
in my head.
reprieve from the shop to the abode no one knows,
down the road curved heavy I strode
and sank deep into muses sweet song,
echo ear to ear soul soothsayer,
calm coffee nerves,
trade lines of rhyme
in a compact black
notebook of wonders belonging
none other to d-bake,
spirit of the sun, wandering peace beast
with worthy words and steady grooves.
come midnight go and its time to depart.
come home to dark demons
seeping 'round corridors and corners,
peeking for a sight of frightened prey
to pounce on invisibly,
startled through and through,
spooks steering to insanity, must
seek shelter ‘**** covers with sleepytime tea.
long discussions over late telephone,
with lady of dreams come true,
of one consciousness such that no puzzle piece
stands apart and one love
binds the confines of it all ,
mind shatteringly simple yet
most don’t seem to see
the beauty of all infinitely one.

I’ve ordered and carried my steaming cup of brown to my table to ignore the falling snow beyond the walls of this box.
My clothes are wrong, my hair as well.
I just cut it, and everyone knows which mistakes I made.
A man sneezes and the song changes.
Better not make eye contact with anyone; I am not in their league, here at the muddy spoon cafe.
Chewing so loudly in the de-creeping silence,
these safe, polite, quiet ones.
I am the creep here. I am different.
My thighs are tense.
Hunching over the paper, arms tense and clutching  a gnarled red pen--
It’s probably self-indulgent to even sign my name.
Someone’s shuffling cards.
I almost forgot.
The awkwardness I’m filled with breathes out a short sigh when I realize
--my part’s over.
“Do you know Sanskrit? Do you know what that is?”
A woman asks another.
I want to choke on the pretension
The tenseness, I adjust my leg to relieve pressure on my ankle.
Why can’t I just enjoy the snow? That’s all I really came here for-- well, and the coffee.
I hear a woman cough with an unaffected tenor, which would convey her gender to an interested party but to me carries no intonation.
I wonder if the girl I recognize from class thinks I’m following her.
I came here for coffee, sweetheart!
Is it yet too hot for me to dare a drink?
I can see it, the steam, rising out of the corner of my eye.
I haven’t looked away from my hand in twenty minutes.
“Who am I?” they may be asking myself for me.
I don’t have a clue.
They can think about that problem
for themselves
while they’re lonely
in their forties.
I’m lonely now and I hope not to live
that long.
Here, we pretend not to see each other’s faces
in the gleaming presence of steaming cups.
“I don’t want to wonder about that.”
I realize there’s nothing I even deem worth writing down.

voices blend, a buzzing murmur
steam swirls, mocha wafts
caffeinated atmosphere
java fog looms above

steam swirls, mocha wafts
music caresses lightly the ambience
caffeinated atmosphere
lively line of addicts

music caresses lightly the ambience
softly, I fall into clouded thought
lively line of addicts
contrast my peaceful bliss

softly, I fall into clouded thought
pen the pensive rumination
contrast my peaceful bliss
busy baristas hollering orders

pen the pensive rumination
inspiration in café population
busy baristas hollering orders
while I ponder life's purpose

inspiration in café population
doodle, draw, and dream
while I ponder life's purpose
I sigh, my mind screams

doodle, draw, and dream
let it out, let me be
I sigh, my mind screams
voices blend, a buzzing murmur

as i sit in the café alone, reading, and drinking hot tea
i look over and see his brown eyes staring back at me
he notices me and makes his way over to sit down
and in those brown gorgeous eyes, i'll surely drown
we talk for hours until the café has to close its doors
i jot down my number and make sure i've got yours
he takes my hands and says "we have to do this again"
and there are so many sparks between us, its insane
i immediately blush, nodding and saying "okay"
and i know it's pretty obvious im a goner anyways
you give me a sweet and tender kiss on the lips
i hear your voice telling me not to give you the slip
i smile and realize it will always be..
him
the coffee shop
and me.

I have feelings;
you're dramatic.
as the back of my notebook
soaks in condensation,
at a remote coffeeshop-table
somewhere,
i check my phone again.
you're misunderstanding love
and I wish I had the time
to explain.
i'm glad
there's hardly anyone here;
waiters too bored to check.
leaning against a window
i hope everyone is happy.
you don't know love;
i have nothing to say.
wildflowers —
you can't plan them.

Lets trace the moments
lost inside our heads.
When we had the energy
to get out of the bed.
All those days just wandering
trying to find our way.
Comfortably silently pondering
upon a winters day.
Sharing thoughts
sharing hopes
using the same bar of soap.

You and me kissing in the snow.
Lost inside the feelings that we show.

Dear my lovely soon to be,

you were sitting at the cafe when I saw you.
sitting in the corner, with your music playing.
keeping quietly to yourself, thinking.

I did not mean to stare, but what can I say,
you caught my eye.

an elderly couple walked in, the bells chimed,
their time telling aged hands intertwined.
it made me smile.
knowing that love can last.

He ordered his coffee black, no sugar.
She ordered her tea, milk, two sugars.
He nudged Her jokingly and said,
" Don't worry sweetie, I got it this time."
as if He had not paid for Her every
other time throughout their long life together.

they searched the small eatery
only to find that all seats were taken.
at that moment you looked up ,
and without thought, gathered your things.
you directed the couple to where you were sitting,
told them it was rightfully theirs.
He shook your hand as if you were old friends.

you turned to walk away, and met my smiling eyes,
along with my now rosy blushed face.
not knowing what to do I turned away
thinking how I could let you catch me staring.
looking up hoping you were gone,
but secretly wishing you stayed,
there you were, unexpectedly.

you smiled, sat down, reached across the table
took my hand, and said,

" Hello, I'm Brian.
I couldn't help but notice you looking,
but don't worry, I only noticed
because I was looking, too."

With all the love in my heart,
yours now and forever..

Late nights see you lingering
Over the final cup of tea
And that one last cigarette
Alone in the growing silence
Relief from the earlier bustle
While the moon slowly fades
Making way for a new day
Which you aren't ready to meet

life is unpredictable
things don’t always go your way
you ask for a coffee with one sugar
but the barista puts in two
drinking the too sweet liquid burns
you drink it anyways

Red lips curl watching Earl Grey unfold in clouds inside a cup
and brown eyes flicker over long fingers folded around porcelain.
She is a carefully written poem on ivory paper, royal blue
ink blooming on a page, kissed and tied with a ribbon.
She is a timeless woman, inhabiting a thousand eras.
Her sharp eyes have outlived the courts of many kings,
have seen revolutions unfold and succeed and be shattered;
she has watched fights started over her in warm saloons and
soapboxed revolution on Boston Common, smiling dangerously.
She is the brightest of all muses.
He is in his element, shining bright with eyes like starlight,
a compliment to the beauty he saw first of everyone.
I feel a soft adoration for what she is to him, and think how
that, really, is poetry.

If you're unclear about love,
return your heart to a place with fog
With clouds created from breathing in the cold during long uphill walks that end in a view of the water
Return the way daylight retreats to the grey embrace of the Pacific Northwest sky at the edge of winter, dissipates in all directions like ripples upon their misty bay
Return the way sunset colored leaves hanging in limbo fall back to Earth
Visions to pieces
Tears to eyes as condensation builds
against the glass of a coffeeshop window and distorts the view from outside and from within
Return the way rain lands on a broken sidewalk in Seattle,
not pouring so much as drifting
through what looks like a new morning
blurred with all the dark nights that came before.

In a Somerville coffeeshop, waiting for his single origin light roasted Pour over,

Frankenstein reads a philosophy magezine, seductively planted by the lounging area.

"One lives two lives."
The magezine reads,  
"That which one spends in their physical body,
and that which begins the moment one leaves that body,
lasting until all witness to ones first life has spoken its final word".

The baristas eyes widen when he sees Frankenstein,
The barista says nothing.
He knows better than to raise the dead.
Frankenstein is often confused
for his monster.

Condensation rises between crocheted mittens, Frankenstein Lingers on the Cherry notes in his Coffee, while it combs icicles into his snow white mustache.

He likes this new version of an afterlife. It empowers him to take advantage of the time he has now, to make his second life last as long as possible.
He's in the middle of this thought
When his face slams against ***** snowbank.
Dog **** mixing into the icicles of his moustache.
A familiar mob of torches and pitchforks only see the monster.
They take turns kicking.
Kicking
Frankenstein wakes to a lynching.

When he lives
He is not a monster.

I walk out their back door
and onto F street.
I stand there for a second
halfway up the hill
staring at the deep reds and soft pinks of the fading sunset
and then turn and continue on my way
into the shadows of the multi story brick buildings
that form my high school
my old school.
I walk through the staff parking lot and under the library
where I spent my lunches for three of those four years
alone.
I climb the stairs and walk past the couch,
the giant cement couch that gets re-painted every night
with a message of some sort,
this time it's white with green letters welcoming the 2014 seniors.
the lights are all on and another guy walks past on the other side of the lawn
I stand there for a second and he passes me
I want to stand here forever
staring at all the buildings
staring at my life for four years,
but I continue on
past the annex, the gym, the Stuart
past the Catholic church where I took pictures in the last snowstorm
past the Mar Vista portables and the art portable
and down Blaine street
where we'd run freshman year in PE,
tapping the gate at Chetzemoka and running back.
Sophomore year I'd walk the same route
during photography and video productions, with friends.
Some days I would turn and walk down to Aldriches,
some days I would continue on
some days I would rehearse my own poetry under my breath.
Today I turn a block before Chetz and continue down the hill
past the condos and the turn off for Point Hudson
past the skate park
past Memorial Field (packed with so many memories)
past the park, the old police station,
the ice cream shop dad used to work at,
the tea shop where I've spent so many hours,
the fountain, the stairs, the writers workshop, the old underground coffeeshop,
my therapist's office, the best pizza in town,
the motel where my mom's first roommate now lives (and works),
into the port and past grandma's old workplace,
past the restaurant my grandpa used to spend hours at
and the boat he used to live on
past the port showers they used to use
and onto the trail along the beach I would walk with mom and grandma
when my now 12 year old brother was in a stroller,
past the mill, sitting at the bottom of three long winding hilly roads,
containing memories of that awful polluted stench that clings to the first third of this town
and would cling to my dad when he'd return from work,
and up the road we lived on when we first moved here.
Past the homeless trails I have scavenged for beer cans on for hours for spare change
and the apartments we used to live in,
past the flowershop where I bought the corsage
that the cheerleader I went to prom with kept getting complimented on.
Past my best friends house
and past the flooring place that we mowed the grass for last summer.
Across the roundabout that has grown into the highway
past the crematorium and waste not want not.
Past the apartments that she lives in, my name still somewhere in her heart.
Past my fathers Jeep and under the archway, covered in dead roses.
Across the mossy yard and through my front door.
I'm going to miss this town.

the bleak reality of life
is giving spark to a dream
and one day waking up
inside a coffeeshop
in the city you love
but have begun to question

(once the doubt sets in, it aches small and grows and grows)

the magical backdrop,
the music and hipsters,
bikelanes and teetering mountaintops

you can barely grasp the
feeling you once knew so well

breathless expectancy
towering opportunity
a fire in your chest

what was safe was safe in the
unknown and the opportunity

two pennies and a peach soda
coffeeshop dreams and tattoo guns
brokenhearted like a nagging hangnail

the best feeling in the world is
being recognized in a crowd and
pulled into familiar arms

and drunken monologues,
nihilism and Nietzsche

fridge beer - it's in the fridge
***** looks from passerby
purple sunglasses and
a sleeve of mountaintops

mid-afternoon rush and strange men
wearing sports shoes
empty words and another good
day

there's never enough time to write as life is happening

these are just words and words,
for writing's sake
he told me to write about it
but maybe I can't.
I tried to jump past it -
the messy dreams and the
stark emotion each morning

(I hate waking up to my emotions, spending most of the morning putting them back where they belong...)

When you approached me,
I was smoking a cigarette
listening to Macklemore
outside my favorite coffeeshop
in the rainy city

You said something,
but I didn't hear you,
so I removed my headphones
as you asked
"Could you help a veteran out
by giving him a cigarette?"

I said yes,
asked you where you had fought
you told me Saigon

"Oh yeah? Vietnam."

you looked at me
dressed in a coat
that was a color of blue
not found in nature
face of canyons
and told me
"We got those ******* good.
We did.
We got those ******* good.
Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
and you walked away.

I was stuck in a trance of
What the **** was that
and yeah,
we did get them
but I don't know if I'd lay down
Agent Orange
and call it "good"
Take Civil and Guerrilla warfare
and try to tie it next to butterflies
and welfare checks

I don't know
what you think is good
But me?
I can't find any other words
for 1.9 to 3.9 million casualties
in a war that should never have been fought
Than sad
and wrong

I wonder how many Vietnamese women
gave birth to half American babies
That they never wanted
that didn't even desire to participate
in the act
of child making

I wonder how many
Loved their children anyway
how many were honest with them
how many of those children burnt that odd color of blue
that should never exist in nature
But then again
neither should the bombs children are still unearthing
in the North
and South of Vietnam

I want to know how many of their parents
learned that American
is another word for a *******
How many of these parents
grew up telling their children
never trust an American
until you know where his gun is pointed
because he's always got it pointing somewhere

I want to know
If you would understand
where Saigon, now ** Chi Minh city
is on a map
if you had never fought there
Would you be on the streets of Portland
alone
asking a college kid
who was not alive
when you fought in Southeast Asia
for a cigarette

I wonder where are you going?
How many people did you ****?
how many are you sorry
for killing?

and then I realize I really don't want to know.

Remember that chick
who pulled her hair back in a ponytail
had glasses
and wore ripped jeans
that she Sharpied murals on
out of boredom?

You’d see her in class sometimes
mumbling to herself
and doodling
while the teacher droned on
about the scientific method.

She always made you curious
but you could never get close enough
to hear what she was saying
or see what she was writing.

She promised herself that one day
she’d keep a diary
to keep track of the truth
but every time she tried
it turned into a collection of
half-thought-poems
and half-drawings of half-things
half-human and half-something else.

Never autobiographical
never the truth.

She seemed like the kind of girl
who is a self proclaimed vegan
scrawny little thing
with ex-hippie parents
like if you ever talked to her
she would be all in for face
about “going green man.”

So she took you by surprise
when she beat the fattest kid in the class
at that hot-dog eating contest
that chubby ******* didn’t stand a chance.

She thinks
the truth is just the lie
that you tell yourself the most often.

People called her “book-smart”
because she wore glasses
and was bad at math.
But she wasn’t really,
she was people-smart
in the way a scientist is rat-smart.

She’d sit on the swings at recess
and watch people
her eyes were concerned
like there was something they had
that she lacked.

Her locker was always empty
she took everything home
every night
she left
no residue
no aftermath
no memory behind.

She dreamed of living out of her car
and opening a coffeeshop
and being free.

She knew she was destined
to prove there was no such thing as destiny.
That we make our own reality.

And all of this you found
endearing and admirable.

Remember her?

…of course you wouldn’t.

You would have her more like this:

That weird nerd who doesn’t talk to anyone.
has long hair and draws on his pants,
is awkward in every conceivable way
- and possibly gay.

He spends all day in his notebook,
writing who-knows-what.
Who cares -

- about what his dreams were?
He was just another background character in your life.

There was one time you cheered him on,
at the hot-dog eating contest.
The only time you ever touched his hand
was to give him a high five for that.

You always pitted him.
silently.
Never out loud.

She was there.
Hiding behind his eyes.
And she loved you.
As much as one could love someone in seventh grade.

But you never loved her.
You couldn’t have.

She didn’t even know she existed yet.

I want a nobody.

A faceless commuter swearing as the machine ignores his credit card. Or the guy two tables to the left who isn’t checking his watch because he isn’t waiting on someone. Any hoodie-wearing, adidas-laced, prospective english major rambling along the sidewalk.

I want a nobody.

‘Cause there’s never a somebody that won’t say “I love you” because it’s numbed by too many mouths that don’t form their lips the right way. The somebodies slide it off their careless tongues—

because little words are pennies in tip jars.

But Nobody, he’ll say

I love the way you put on a jacket
like some kind of whip-snap in the lapels and collar
tipping your chin up and
hooking your silver-ringed thumbs in the pockets

and I love how you flip through books
eager to break the spine but not fold the pages
holding your breath to hold the focus
propping open a paperback between long tapered fingers

and how the barista at the coffeeshop knows your face!
and blush rises like foam on your cheeks

because it’s so ******* incredible how
when you drum your fingers
you don’t drum you press
into a phantom piano
the treble clef of Linus and Lucy
or The Entertainer
or, if your eyes have already gotten deeper
—in a mossy well of thought—
it’ll be Augustana’s Boston
dancing C-E-C-E-G-E-C-E
in the jumping tendons of your right hand.

                  *

oh darling, I’m in love with
your clumsy movements when you fall into bed
wrapping a thick comforter over your bare shoulders
curling your legs as you settle on your side
hair fanned out on the bedsheet because
the pillow’s too close to the wall


but lovely, I don’t love you
because I’m not real at all

you need to live for the little moments.
for dancing in your kitchen all by yourself.
for spinning around in the rain.
for the random bursts of inspiration.
for little adventures in the city, for exploring
and getting lost but
enjoying every minute of it.
for body-positive days, when you decide
that you feel like rocking that almost-too-short dress
and those glittery heels and eyeshadow and that dark red lipstick.
for baking at 2 in the morning.
for having movie marathons, complete
with popcorn and lots of chocolate.
//
for that feeling you get when you discover a new book
that you fall instantly in love with.
for that feeling you get when you stumble across
something you accepted was lost.
for the feeling you get when you can finally play that song
that you've been practicing for hours and hours and
it sounds amazing.
//
for all the times that you'll laugh so hard
you can hardly breathe.
and all the days that you'll spend in that one coffeeshop,
surrounded by people that make you feel okay.
for being able to see the bands that you listen to constantly
live in concert, and your voice getting lost in the crowd
as you all sing along to the song that has kept you
from falling apart time and time again.

you have so much to live for.
but most importantly, you have to live
for yourself.

you are endless wordplay recorded over a blank coffeeshop soundtrack. your lips throw out pun after pun, but your throat hums to the ghost of a song you swore you didn't listen to.

you are smiles across the breakfast table, blinking too-little sleep from your too-bright eyes, talking too loudly about how you don't need rest when you can get drunk on life. i laugh quietly. the dark circles give you away, my dear.

you are long nights and warm blankets and repeating "we should go to bed" until it sounds like a joke. it is hard to fall asleep when the blood is singing in my veins and my dreams are coming true right in front of me.

you are soft corners and sharp edges, too strong to stand firm and too fragile to break. your footsteps falter and even your confidence has cracks, but i'll admit it's comforting to know that you're just as scared as i am sometimes.

you are fast-talking and over-explaining, and you never do anything halfheartedly so you are also lying-too-easily. but it's okay i never wanted the truth anyway, i hated how it dimmed the memories and haunted the empty space on my mattress. i like how that space is taken up by the curve of your body instead.

you are called a paradox, white wolf or black sheep, predator and prey at odds and at peace. and you are called downward-flowing, like the way i am falling faster and harder for you. then again, maybe i like metaphors too much. maybe your name is just a name. maybe it's the most beautiful sound i've ever heard.
but i call you love because you are the only reason i have any inkling of what it means.

Remember that chick
who pulled her hair back in a ponytail
had glasses
and wore ripped jeans
that she Sharpied murals on
out of boredom.

You’d see her in class sometimes
mumbling to herself
and doodling
while the teacher droned on
about the scientific method
and she always made you curious
but you could never get close enough
to hear what she was saying
or see what she was writing.

She promised herself that one day
she’d keep a diary
to keep track of the truth
but every time she tried
it turned into a collection of
half-thought-poems
and half-drawings of half-things
half-human and half-something else.

Never autobiographical
never the truth.

She seemed like the kind of girl
who is a self proclaimed vegan
scrawny little thing
with ex-hippie parents
like if you ever talked to her
she would be all in for face
about “going green man.”

So she took you by surprise
when she beat the fattest kid in the class
at that hot-dog eating contest
that chubby ******* didn’t stand a chance.

She told me one day
that she thinks
the truth is just the lie
that you tell yourself the most often.

People called her “book-smart”
because she wore glasses
and was bad at math.
But she wasn’t really.

She was people-smart
in the way a scientist is rat-smart.

She’d sit on the swings at recess
and watch people
her eyes were concerned
like there was something they had
that she lacked.

Her locker was always empty
she took everything home
every night
she left
no residue
no aftermath
no memory behind.

She dreamed of living out of her car
and opening a coffeeshop
and being free.

She knew she was destined
to prove there was no such thing as destiny.
That we make our own reality.

And all of this you found
endearing and admirable.

Remember that chick?

...of course you don't.

sometimes I find
poems by accident:
I trip over them in the shower or at the bottom
of the stairs and I
apologize for my misconduct but
what the **** were they doing there Im not
supposed to be inspired
by yearsold graffiti or
words scratched into
bathroom stalls or
in the dulcet tones
of the woman on the other end of the
payphone that ate up my dollar fifty
stop ******* the sleep out
of my eyes scratching at
the scrabbleplaying part of my mind that
wants to steal other people’s words and
dress them with the playclothes of
my fiveyearold daughter
why the **** is it
that when I see strangers at the coffeeshop I can’t
just let them be strangers anymore

I.
the boy at the coffee shop
is a nameless being
with a permanent hold on her

he fills her waking thoughts
with his soft smiles
and brown eyes
light cocoa skin
a sharp contrast
to the white of a coffee cup

every time she's there
he is too
it makes her wonder
if he happens to work there
but in all her time at the cafe
she has yet to see him
put on an apron
and ask for orders

she longs to talk to him
to banter and to flirt
to have a coffee shop au
all her own

but every time
she tries to speak
doubt creeps
into her throat
and stays there

she is a
chipped porcelain cup
gilded with gold
letting others fill her to the brim
till she spilled over the edges

someday she will
go up to talk
to the boy
at the coffee shop
but for now
she is just
a stranger
longing from afar

forever people watching
and forever watched by people

-j.

Do you ever think of me on rainy days?
about how I used to tell you
that you reminded me of the latter?
about how the pitter patter of the raindrops,
sounded just like the tears you wiped away?
Sometimes I sit in a coffeeshop and inhale the aroma,
and I swear I see your shadow in the rain.
—J.N

I found you atop Namsan Tower,
and locked my heart to your gate.
My heart set free.

I found you in Gangnam,
Your style too infectious.
I walk to your beat.

I found you in a coffeeshop,
The cake was sweet.
Your barista was sweeter.

I left you in the East,
6,000 miles between us.
My Seoul.

-trj

In little coffeeshops
By the back corner, far from the exits
But near the little hall leading to the bathroom
At a time set by a large window
The poet, his soul filled with words and reasons to say them
But unsure how to convey them
Can observe the nerves and synapses
Converging in this single axis
The windowside throne, the great looking glass
Provides a view of every soul to pass

Through the door to the core of any good café
The front register
Where they serve the junkies
Their first no cream no sugar fix of the day
The register ******* this sunrise shift stands tall and wears
A pleasant smile
Like a suit of armor
For the fractures frayed and loosened pieces
Of her 65 hours a week between two jobs psyche

From his back corner vantage point
The poet sees this early morning warrior
And watches her adversaries approach
The sleep deprived and the caffeine dependent
The men in suits with leather briefcases
Hustling and bustling through self inflicted exhaustion
Work force revenants who begin to shamble through the door
Out of the early morning mists at about 5:30
just as the world is shrugging of the shroud of night

In his seat of power, the poet, lord of the room
Can see, despite the dim lights of the coffeeshop
These early birds, gaunt and hungry like vultures
Standing shoulder to shoulder with the last of the night owls
Shabby old things with ruffled feathers
Too tired to sleep or simply without a roost.
Their re rimmed eyes provide a window
Through which a sovereign of the word
May glance upon their tired souls

Yes from that lovely back corner
The poet is a king, a lord in noble regality
Reshaping reality
Sitting in the back of any coffee shop
In Phoenix Arizona
In America
In the world
In this whole great evergrowing span of universe
And turning people into words.

I go out for coffee
to see the display.
A dozen glass cases
Faces polished,
gleaming wares-
People eating their gaze
to divide the public air.

You must be polite when sharing space.
Beware of sliding eyes
too slow, too fast, sideways.

I come to these places
to be seen
to find coy reservation

But mostly I come
to steep ***
And brew tension
This my coffeeshop menagerie
Where I wish to be the voyuer
And you the view.

Perhaps it is the caffeine
but I feel a quickening,  
a fogging of thought
sensing you there.

So I'll test my tea
boost immunity,
Break glaze my glass shield,
burn and remember
I can't disappear.

Yours-
an earnest stare
refracting
my glass-eyed fear.

Picture this,
It’s April, the world is moving forward as you are inside a coffee shop.
You went to be at peace, your home has felt like an enclosure.
Although it is most definitely your home there seems to be something always missing.
So you head to your second home, a coffee shop a few blocks away.
They all know you by name, and the inside jokes you all have fills the store with a warm laughter that can be felt even before anyone opens the door.
You have your bag, within it is two notebooks and a laptop. One notebook for any ideas you want to write down, and the other just in case. You have your laptop, because you said you will write on it, but you end up looking up random thoughts in your head.
You seem to not be able to focus, but that’s fine because you’re having better thoughts then when you were at home.
You spend a few hours there before you pack your bag, you get up, say your goodbyes, you look outside, the rain is pouring.
You remember you didn’t bring a coat, you couldn’t wait to leave the obstacle you call home that you never looked outside at the clouds that loomed overhead.
But in your defense you felt that same feeling for weeks now, the way those dark clouds in the sky look is how you’ve felt for most of your life now.
But as you’re walking out of this coffeeshop, someone stops you and asks why you didn’t bring a coat.
Without thinking nor without a hesitation you say, “I’m wearing one can’t you see.”, and before they can say anything else, “I wear my heart not on my sleeve, I wear it as a coat.”.
They look at you and say, “Hopefully next month I will grow from the concrete”.

I fall in and out of love with
Every passing stranger on crooked sidewalks,
Every boy with a guitar and a broken heart,
Every man who weeps and begs for the graze of my fingertips,
Every woman with lost eyes and the spirit of a lioness,
Every stranger in
Every city, new or old, in
Every coffeeshop with clinking cups and sunshine leaking through the windows, at
Every party met with awkward glances,
Everywhere.

I wonder what come across your mind
when you see me now
passing by acting like a stranger
as if we had never been in each other’s life
as if we had never grazed each other’s skin
as if we had never craved to be in each other’s side
as if I had never open up my soul for you
does it hurt you as much as it hurts me?

I wonder what come across your mind
when you are alone driving midnight
and finding the passenger seat empty
occupied by the ghost of me
‘you always take control of the audio player in every single car’.
do you just listen to the radio now?

I wonder what come across your mind
everytime you get into your car
buckle up for your ride
do you still hear the ghost of my voice telling you to put your seatbelt on?

I wonder what come across your mind
when you spend most of the nights watching movies
till 4am
losing sleep
are you suddenly reminded about how i always whine and hate when you do it

I wonder what come across your mind
when you open the backseat of your car
and find the yellow pillow that belongs to me
i used to hug it all the time
does it still smell like me?

I wonder what come across your mind
when our songs play on the radio
or the songs that I used to love
yet you hated it
do you skip the song now?

I wonder what come across your mind
when you find little things that are my belongings
like my handwriting of your name
across your books
carved it’s ink deep
on a piece of paper
leaving it’s mark
do you ever think of ripping it?

I wonder what come across your mind
when you are at the coffeeshop
that we once claimed as home
where you told me you missed me
for the first time
have you ever been there since our last time?

I wonder what come across your mind
when you look at your cup of coffee
the smell of it
and your first sip of your hot latte
does it resemble me?

I wonder what come across your mind
when you look at her
do you compare her with me?
is there anything of hers that remind you of me?

I wonder what come across your mind
when our memories suddenly surfaced
do you try to block it?
or is that the reason why you bring her
to places we used to go?

I wonder what come across your mind
when someone said my name between the conversation
do you think to yourself ‘I broke her heart’ over and over again
or
does it make your chest heavy
or
do you even care

I wonder what come across your mind
when you can not sleep at night
is there a part of me
that cross your mind?
are you sorry for ever hurting me?
are you even wondering what am I doing
or how I’m doing
do you ever meet me in your sleep
and dream of how I love you true
*do you regret for ever hurting me

We've met before, in between the swift breeze while the moon sits on the stoop and watches us hold hands 
Where the tulips blow in the wind we stood somewhere in the grass, embraced 
Inside of a coffeeshop among the dim of light we found eachother in coffee beans-- Aromatic 
Alongside a breath we became something of an exhale, a cloud only seen and untouched
We've met before but you're only as close as the night sky is 
Can't you feel all that could become of us?