"americano" poems
Ladies on Water Street,
with coffee grounds
under your fingernails,
You are the reason
that I leave my bed before Ten
In the morning.
Some days I want to ask
if you’ve ever read Marquez
but I am far too shy and
you are far too
beautiful and
I think too much and
you are probably
Too Straight.
But while you are pouring that espresso:
Allow me (just this once)
To wade only ankle- deep.
Allow me (forgive me),
I know its marginalization;
You are a human and a person,
But I must give way to temptation:
let me engage in some
Innocent objectification
(an oxymoron, I'm aware),
as I sip an Americano
through dumb lips
and watch the little
movements of your hips.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 7:09 PM UTC
I wanna dance the mambo,the cubin cuba mambo,
I wanna dance the cha cha,hips movement with the cha cha!
or maybe try the salsa, deep ,sensual, is the salsa.
I wanna dance the samba,the fun brazilian samba,
or maybe the lambada,brazilian hot lambada!
My favourite s' the tango,intense ****** tango,
Lost in the flamenco,ardent spanish flamenco.
May even try the polka,high energy in polka,
the Czech bohemian polka!
I wanna go and party,good time ,dancing the rumba,
latino americano,cubano, africano.
I wanna do the hip hop,hip hop,hip hop,don't stop.
Dance reign in the ballroom,
as I dance the Ball Room,under and above,
With you ,I dance my last dance,the classic dance of love.
Are you ready partner ?
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 2:54 AM UTC
It’s always been just coffee kisses,
they’re all I have left to bring.
Overflowing mugs of latte love to spill on your hands, your lips, your heart,
Caffe mocha affection
laced with cappuccino hugs.
Iced or steaming, you decide.
Hazelnut, peppermint, French vanilla
(dulce de leche piquitos para ti)
warm espresso admiration,
americano dreams,
sugared and creamy to sweeten your tongue
served up with a coffee house smile—
bitterness hides in a candied disguise
but not today.
No sugar in the raw, no milk, no cream,
no sweet sticky flavors to trick your lovesick mind,
no fancy names to make you think it’s worth the cost.
Just pure, dark caffeine,
ground up this morning,
rich and smooth, but bitter and dry—
brewed with intention.
Just one coffee kiss, for you.
One plain black coffee kiss.
Take it or leave it.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 11:09 PM UTC
Hair the colour of an Americano,
Petite denim shorts, blue.
The scent of a perfume distinguishable, to you.
Those skin-coloured tights – pleading to be torn.
You’re everything I desire.
Yet you’re everything I resent.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC
"It's not that bad,
I tastes good, I swear"
It was cold, and bitter, and vile
Yet I still ordered it
Every
Single
Time
Like a magical elixr
Of momentary freedom
From the wires of guilt
Welded into my neural pathways
Just enough-
To not cause suspicion
But not so much
That I'd collapse
Strong enough
To make me jittery,
Anxious, nauseated,
But still incomparable
To the unspeakable sin
Of sustenance,
So when I saw stars standing up,
Or buckled over at the knees,
And wondered why
It was even worth it?
I'd come to the same conclusion
Every
Single
Time
And it was this:
It doesn't matter anyways
Because I'll never
Be able
To stop.
May 30, 2021
May 30, 2021 at 9:49 PM UTC
**Bought poetry magazine;
It's in English...
I do not know if my inability to understand the poems comes from not fully understanding the language, or because I am a not-well-read-ass.**
*He comprado una revista de poemas;
Está en inglés...
No sé si mi incapacidad por entender los poemas proviene de no comprender completamente el idioma o porque soy un asnito que no ha leído lo suficiente en su vida.*
I thought Café Americano would translate into American Coffee or just Coffee, but it does not, it is still Café Americano (but I have to order it with a snotty accent to be understood).
Pensé que Café Americano se traduciría a American Coffee o sólo a café, pero no, sigue llamándose Café Americano (sólo que tengo debo pedirlo con un acento mamoncito para que me entiendan).
**Now, secondary characters in my dreams speak English.
They say naughty word;
But in this language I am not disturb,
Thanks to the my access to american and british media, I am numb.**
*Ahora, los personajes secundarios de mis sueños hablan inglés.
Dicen palabritas sucias;
Pero en este idioma no me perturbo,
Gracias a mis años de ver porquerías en el cine, la T.V. e internet, estoy acostumbrada.*
Taco Bell's Spicy Chicken Enchilada Platter
No puedo evitar desearlo cada que lo veo anunciado, y siento que es traición a mi patria.
lol
ji ji ji
LOL
JA JA JA
1 dollar
15.10 pesos.
Wow
Puta madre.
One pomegranate, $2.50
Una granada, $37.75
No pomegranates for me, thank you
Puta madre.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 11:49 AM UTC
We order a mushroom-cheese omelet
Now see you’re the kind of guy who eats jam on toast
And I’m the kind of girl who doesn’t eat toast as all
So when the plate comes, I give you both pieces of toast
And you spread the strawberry jam on it
While I’m busy cutting the omelet in half
But before taking a bite of anything
We both pick up a hashbrown simultaneously
As if somehow we’d planned the entire thing
And we both take a bite of it and
We love it
It’s cooked to perfection and potatoes are my weakness
Back to the omlet though,
So I’m not that great at cutting
And the omelet cut unevenly in half
So you take the smaller piece
Even though you’re bigger than me
And I steal the bigger piece
Even though I’m smaller than you
And you eat your half in three bites
While I’m struggling with mine
And the string cheese is caught somewhere between
My fingers, my mouth and the plate
And it takes me a while to eat
About twenty bites in, there’s no way I can eat more
So I ask you to eat what’s leftover
I guess I should have given you the bigger half to begin with
But I guess that’s just how we work
Where you’ll always take the smaller portion
But end up eating most of the food
Because I’ll always take the bigger portion
And leave most of it untouched
You eat my leftovers in two bites
And the coffee arrives
I almost knock over your espresso
While reaching for the complimentary cookie
I eat my cookie
And then I eat half of yours too
And by this time I’m pretty full
But I see a sign for a free cookie
And I want it
You don’t really care for it but you laugh
Because you haven’t seen me want anything as bad
As the cookie (it's free!)
And so you get me the free cookie
And I’m too full to eat it
So I put it in my bag
Very proudly; it’s my success for the day
I finish my Americano faster than you finish your single shot espresso
So you give me a sip of yours
But you drop a few drops on me
And now my pants look like they have blood stains
And I smell of espresso
And you’re trying to clean it with a tissue
But the waiter thinks we’re doing something naughty
So I tell you to stop
And even if we were doing something naughty
Who’s the waiter to say anything anyways
Anyways
So we finish out coffee and we call for an uber
And my pants are stained
And I’m carrying my cookie
And I don’t think I’ve ever been happier
While we wait for the uber
You steal my glasses
And you try them on
They look funny on you
I like them on you
I think I like you
And you can’t see anything
And I can’t see anything either
Except for your outline
That’s enough for me
So the uber comes
And he calls us
And we’re leaving
At the counter you pay
And I see a Nutella cookie in the window
I want it
But you just paid for breakfast
So I’ll keep quiet
We sit in the car
And I put on pomegranate lipbalm
And I give you some too
Your lips look nice and soft now
And I think today has been a really great day
And I think you fit me well
Because you love toast and I leave toast
And it works out
(except for that baked tomato no one ate)
But look the point is
Is that we work
Well.
And we squish in the back of an uber
And guess what?
The seat was made for two.
We ordered a mushroom-cheese omelet
It was a good day
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 10:35 AM UTC
*12.30 a.m
the town drenched with
the never-ending fall of rain
still horribly soaking with
sinners and saints looking for love in
cold sheets;
dark winding alleys;
telephone lines;
and every where in between
this solitude is becoming
more a safe haven
if anything
5 a.m
city lights on the river
and it takes me back to
the familiar print of checkered blue shirt
draped on her arm
and how it complimented
her pale skin and red lips
ash blue hair in the summer breeze
voice like the dawn of spring
everything i'm not and never will be
yesterday's cup of sad americano
on a lonely table for two
on a wintry october night
growing colder and colder
by the second
6 a.m
the now bright sky still cries
with me
the blinding lights of terminals
bustling with hellos and goodbyes
mock me
black knit sweater black ripped jeans
and heart now stained black as i remember
your eyes forming phases of the moon
round curious, crescents bright
the you who can't hide it
the warmth of the sun seep through my clothes
a mark of a new day, another chance to wonder
whether today is another to
ponder upon what ifs what could've beens and should've beens
10.55 a.m
i'm ready to leave the pretend love
who had already left me first*
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 4:24 AM UTC
Careta era o cavalo
A quem o sal dado
Em mim sangrava.
Tinka, um dos 2 cachorros –
Meu predileto era o Leão.
Brigavam como cães e gatos.
I Think era como o chamava -
ao primeiro dos cães
o americano missionário.
Shibiu, ou será Chibiu?
– era o cachorro de dona Modesta
Nossa mãe adotada: sempre atenta
A que nenhum bicho nos agarrasse.
Lembro-me também do Bito –
Aquele disgramado, culpado duas
Vezes por esta cicatriz que trago
No meio das costelas e no fardo
Pessoal que carregamos vida afora.
Bito não era bode expiatório
– mas cabrito imolado tampouco.
Acho que era o diabo tocando viola.
Eu alimentava os porcos
Sem expulsar ninguém
Morro abaixo...
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
who?
what?
I,
thats who.
who's asking anyway?
Was it that ratchet **
frahm the deli?
*** I got something to say to her, And I will say it
sometimes she puts my chicken on rye
on ciabatta.
And sometimes it's fine because...
sometimes I see the moon then soon I see the sun, sometimes I like to look out of the highest floor
and everything is so small and so peaceful:
no one can upset that tranquility,
the sheer exhaustion of life,
gives one a tough exterior, a shell.
If someone comes a knocking, before i've had my pie, it's all over,
but sometimes realizing you are but an ant...is refreshing
then you get back downstairs and someone spills their grande americano, no milk or sugar, because that's so mainstream on your cashmere cardigan
then you realize
that throwing a punch is so very healthy
a punch straight in the retro glasses that they do not need.
pow, right in the kisser.
So you can tell the nashty from the deli
she might be next.
The man who spilled his drink is now on the ground, but it's ok he instgrammed the whole thing.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
Yo soy el antípoda del poeta americano
Poets in the wind
Yo soy el cadáver de la tumba
Horses in the bed
Yo soy el alabastro californiano
California is my dream
Yo soy el sueño de California
Tiffany's bay
Chocolate brew
Yo soy la Costa Oeste
West coast lips
Adiós to California, Juan
Adios to California, John
Not John Coltrane
Not John Smith
Not John Bach
John Hiatt is the name
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 2:39 PM UTC
Coffee shop boy sitting at a wooden table with headphones tucked gently into his ears
Sipping espresso or tea from a paper cup that says "Caution: Hot Contents"
Which makes him think desperately of her clothes, and the wind-kissed skin she wears underneath
Wishing he could be the air and wrap his soul around her with each of her steps.
He takes a sip of his latte or black coffee, and feels the burn as it travels down his throat
While it warms his heart he looks out at the night sky framed by the coffee shop window
He glances at the moon and all of the stars and prays they light her path and keep her safe
In envy he realizes the stars look upon her every night, when she wears the moonlight around her face
With her head resting against a pillow, eyes closed and dreaming things the day can't contaminate.
And he wishes beyond hope he could be there to write them down like a to-do list kept secret from her
Until completed he presents them to her, with a check mark on his own heart to show that it, too, is hers.
But since he cannot do these things he picks up his Americano or Cocomo and takes another sip
And he lets the banging of the drums and deliberate pounding of the guitar put her out of his mind
Until later at night he picks up a pen, half-full with ink, and writes once again about himself
Hoping she'll read each word and fall as in love with him, imperfections, flaws and humanity
As he is with her beauty, words, breath, heart, soul and spirit.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
Whilst you daydreamed,
your eyes seemed to lose their sheen
and you'd forget how to empathise.
You shut the car door hard
as if someone who wanted
to aspirate closure.
We spent two nights at the Cooden Beach hotel,
so we could hear June Tabor and Oyster band,
proceeding this performance ,
we had our four slices of toast and an Americano.
Your pink canvas bag
and polished stilettos
underneath the dinner table
hid an issue or two
playing a parallel game.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 3:04 PM UTC
will I keep my secrets?
shave my legs on the shower floor
imagine how things can be
cool **** by chastity belt playing on my apple tv
check back soon, check in with me
a vegan soup diet
black coffee
diet coke from the bottle
one potato cake
and savoys: an australian classic
poems, poems, poems
words that rhyme
off rhymes — no rhymes
forced a non sequitur
confess, confess
confide and abort
remake dating app profiles over and over
pictures of me: two years old
women - women - women - women
a cup *******
not even a cup *******
***** mirror — bathroom sink
want a cortado? — past memories
mediterranean wholesalers — sydney road
buying glassware in south melbourne
i dream of mozzarella
dairy — unethical
and oysters — the cruelty
be cruel to me, be my bully
kiss me on the lips softly
your tongue in my mouth
you taste like campari
my americano
negroni lesbians
discuss films
you'll mention jim jarmusch
coffee and cigarettes
winona ryder — taxi cab
in los angeles
and i was once an actress
consider me retired
break down the barriers
scream inside yourself
let everyone in until you can't take it
be left alone
Feb 9, 2020
Feb 9, 2020 at 2:04 PM UTC
Elisheva pinned back
her hair, her thick lens
glasses enlarged her eyes,
she eyed her lips
fresh red lips ticked.
She pressed
her lips together
as she’d seen
her mother do
to spread the red.
She put away
her makeup case,
clipped up her bag.
Tuviya took in
her plump frame,
his eyes wandered over
the tight jeans and top.
She had ordered
latte and cake.
The counter girl,
thin and pale,
took money
and tilled away.
He followed her
as she walked
to a table
in the corner
where another sat,
a female of older years,
plump but not fat.
Elisheva mouthed words,
gestured with hands.
Tuviya studied her
with an artist’s eye,
took in fingers, nails,
gestures and moving lips.
Imagined her
in his studio,
the sharp light,
the battered sofa
holding her frame,
her hands in lap,
her naked *******
like piglets
in deep sleep.
A girl served Elisheva
her drink and cake,
then walked away.
Tuviya drank
his Americano,
his eyes moving over
Elisheva’s moving hands
and lips, the taking
of the latte and cake,
red lips opening
and closing
like fish on land.
He painted her
on his mind’s canvas,
set her down
with inner eye,
shaded in
the dull beyond,
filled in
with inward paints
her outer being
as he saw.
He could have
snapped her
with his Smartphone
camera, captured
in the state of now,
but it may have
spoilt it all,
he thought,
somehow.
She licked her fingers,
removing crumbs
and cream of cake,
mouthing each one.
He smiled,
imagined another game,
which she’d not play,
he thought,
least not here
and now in this cafe.
She talked on,
her fingers clean,
the dampness shining
in the overhead lights.
Tuviya closed up
the studio in his mind,
put away
the inner paints,
the canvas set aside,
she on the inner artwork,
on battered sofa,
legs spread wide.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
window shopping generally never amounts to much
too much too flashy too rare for me
look in with hopes of finding that special something
something tangible something material something of worth
feeling worthy of that designer item
that limited-edition-look-at-me-i'm-somebody-important
custom made name brand
i walked into the shop bold and haughty
snatched the hand you held your Americano in
and said I'll Take This One
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
I knew something changed.
Something that lingered transformed,
An overwhelming surge of clarity and comfort.
With its caffeinated beverages flowing crisply,
It's stone walls radiating warmth and serenity.
My lips shudder at the taste of bittersweet Americano,
A myriad sensations.
It's subtle earthiness,
It's tasteful tinge of brown sugar,
It's smooth transition from the tongue to the oesophagus.
My eyes widen, my hands tremble.
My world has turned upside down,
No, no, upside up!
This sensation is dizzying, electrifying.
I need to shout across these tidal waves of pleasure,
I must scream across the coloured books, the decorative lights.
Nothing can stop me.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
these caravan walls
crave flesh,
eat residents
and bury their femurs
in dandelions
growing up
from the front steps.
a boy
makes it past
the threshold,
but a man remembers
the blue eyes
and brown soil
where he planted
a garden.
some weeds
will never die,
and what he learned
of the world
is already wilting
in his glove-box.
most weeks
hope drives off
in semi-trucks,
leaving an americano
growing colder,
on counters
in cups
between hungry walls
made in the u.s.a.,
and ever blacker.
mzf
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC
after many months of sleeping
i awake in the mountains of navarra:
dusty & feeling like a grain sack:
limp & weary of travel.
sometimes a girl comes & gives me a little water
--as much as her family can spare.
i thank her each time but note the distrust in her eyes.
perhaps it is the length of my hair,
or the folksongs i sing in my sleep.
her father sits in a corner, smoking, cursing me in spanish.
(things like **** americano"*)
i contemplate telling him i came from canada
--but i don't think it would matter much.
they've already burned my clothes,
or sold them, maybe. (novelty items.)
i think the girl brought me a robe of some kind
while i was sleeping (it's loose & very comfortable)
May 31, 2011
May 31, 2011 at 5:42 PM UTC
Havia uma garota, eu a observava de longe
Nós éramos da turma dos invisíveis
Ela não me via, mas eu a enxergava
Havia uma garota e ela era linda
Havia uma garota e ela era tudo
Havia uma garota e então não havia mais nada
Havia uma garota e ela era da turma dos populares
O típico esteriótipo "high school" americano
Havia uma garota e quem ela tinha sido
Havia uma garota e quem ela era
Havia uma garota e ela era vazia
Nós éramos estranhos orbitando o mesmo sistema
Havia uma garota e eu a amava
Então ela mudou
Virou de larva a borboleta
Só que não foi bonito
E então só havia o vazio
Havia uma garota e então não havia mais nada
Em seu lugar só restou uma despedida
Um pedido desesperado de ajuda
Havia uma garota e ela era triste
Havia uma garota e ela era invisível, mesmo sob os holofotes
Havia uma garota e ela era solitária
Nós não éramos ninguém para os outros
Mas eu a enxergava
E então havia um garoto
Que ficou com as últimas palavras dela
Havia alguém que se importava no final
Então havia eu
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 4:55 PM UTC
You make me smile with the rain,
As it glistens like your eyes,
You are a New York paradise,
With your hips, moving with the sounds of music and voice,
Delicate chocolate and bitter sweet,
Americano coffee with caramel, you keep me awake,
How wonderful, like a revolution,
Love, will make the warrior weep,
Bitter sweet dusk and dawn,
Dead lilacs by the road,
Variety is the spice of life,
And so many are dying,
You make my knees bleed,
And my hips die of greed,
There is no comfort,
When you walked away.
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 9:09 PM UTC
I wish I could tell everyone I love
how much I miss them
but I'm too immature
and I can't stand the rejection
of indifferent words.
So I just sit stationary, in my loneliness
staring out any windows
that will let me.
And I’m in a café alone
I look up
and in front of me
is a man sitting alone
facing the street
I can’t help but wonder:
Are you sad like me?
Would you like to put our empty together
and fill it with peace?
But I just stare rudely
while he calmly exists
it seems every person
is just how I imagine them to be
I tend towards half glass full,
luckily.
But I haven't a clue.
He exited the coffee shop
And will drift off of my mind
Until I read this again
And recall the time
I sat in a chair
Across from a man
I knew nothing about
But pretended I did
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
Huevos Cabreaos
followed by an Americano,
taking respite from those morning Lowry figurines with their bon bon shopping priorities.
A Puerto Rican girl has just passed the La Tasca informal interview
and is immediately hugged by her awaiting friends,
life is so fast and we all think like wikipaedia, fragments of momentary knowledge ,
even the menu here has a photographic memory lock,
outside a Big Issue seller makes his first sale
the broadest Lancashire accent,
can soothe somebody's day,
here is the reality of listening too.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 10:40 AM UTC