Will it be latte, espresso, or tea
Daydream coffee drinker, that would be me
Nat King Cole on the audio
Singing about things I already know
People watch
Coffee cup lipstick blotch
Pours the cream to cool the steam
Fearing what the future will bring
I may be living on a shoesting
In a coffeehouse daydream
Things are better than what they may seem

Is there love in a coffeehouse?
Like those silly Hallmark movies?
Coffee is love
But hides in mystery
In laptops and cell phones
In wandering eyes
And ****** musings
In the buzzing sounds of a lovely brew
To be consumed by you

Rain coming down sideways
sheeting on the window pane
fogged up glass humidity high
casual conversations earnestly spoken
all the while studiously ignoring
the couple in the middle of the room
Stealing kisses completely
in their own world
oblivious to children's homework and
business people's envy
steaming cups of coffee
can't compete with
heat from their coffeehouse kisses

My sons sit in
the faux leather chairs
next to the faux fireplace.

It is switched off
for the summer
that is coming.

The boys are switched on
for much the same reason.

I am watching them with lazy eyes.

(halfway)

The homeless man is here too.

He sits in the chair opposite
my youngest.

They are exchanging introductions.

No one is nervous.

(I am too near for that.)

__


When I am alone,
the homeless man
will ask me to buy him
a cup.

I usually do.

The 1st time this happened,
he pulled a fast-one.

This tattered man
asked for a triple-shot
espresso
with steamed milk,
setting me back
5 dollars.

Now, I’m the one who orders.

(A small, dark-roast,
with plenty of sugar
and milk.)

Last time,
he chuckled to himself
and happily vibrated
down the path.

Today, he is well-met,
but,
remains
decaffeinated.

*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

personal journal musings from last week...

Reading in my local coffeehouse last week
  a very large, urban place, always crowded
Well...reading, talking, and watching the human circus in action
  I go there a lot

Taking a standing break from my comfy chair
  one of several surrounding a fireplace
I turn around to view the street activity
  through the windows behind me

A girl I noticed walking by a bit earlier is seated at the window bar
  she catches my eye and lights up like a firework
Exploding from her seat with purpose
  she moves directly toward me with a sparkling trail of excitement

I race through the flash drive of my mind
  searching for a memory to go with the vaguely familiar face
It bothers me when someone recognizes me
  and I can't reciprocate and this appears to be an extreme case

No luck...so I go into my identification crisis default mode
  basically over-animation to distract and buy time
She's quickly in front of me and very close
  greeting me with the type of enthusiasm that leaves me breathless

We hug, or maybe not, unclear right now
  as I am lost in the sparkle of her intense eye contact
She is speaking fast and familiarly, but I don't catch much of it
  until she asks if there is room for us to sit together..."ummm sure"

She flies back to her seat to collect her things
  as I stand there stunned and pleasantly confused
My whole being warmed by our interaction
  feeling so beautifully interconnected

Returning with the same effusive energy
  she engages me with a huge, expectant smile
She lifts her hand so that its contents hover next to her beaming face
  exclaiming "I even brought you a red velvet cupcake!"

Well those words are the death knell for my improbable daydream
 now obvious that this is a rendezvous, probably an internet date
I apologize (more sorry than she could know*)
  relating that there must be some mistake

She asks whether my name is ...
  I reluctantly reply that it's not
Then her face takes on several shades of embarrassment
  as she glances past me to her actual date a few chairs away and she flees

It happens so fast that I don't even have time to thank her
  not that she'd appreciate the gratitude in her present state
I turn to see them immediately leaving
  likely, and understandably, a sudden change of plans

I hope to see her again if only to elevate her recollection
  of our shared experience, laugh about it together
I know this is a big city
  but a small world...I tell myself

Whenever I replay this film short of my life
  I may just edit out the scene after the cupcake presentation

  I so cherish red velvet greetings

I never really understood
Why you like coffee anyway
Having something so cold and bitter
To start your day

Or maybe it's just me
Acustomed to the customs of this world
A product of this day and age
And that why I couldn't see

A past so dark and dreary
Shown in your eyes cold and weary
Weak and beaten down
You fell away beneath the sound

To live again another day
In the quiet cliché of this café
Within the solitude of your own creation
You view the world through your imagination

That's why you would take a sip of bitterness
In this jaded and abstracted mind of yours
Now the only bridge to entity you'll let through
A gentle reminiscent of reality's grim kiss

While writing, a college girl
walked out of a nearby can.
‘You were in there a while,’ I said.
‘You’re not funny.’
‘Yes I am.’
‘*******.’

Warm coffee, foldable chairs, and wholly sounds--
maybe this is the way to spend your free Wednesday nights.
At least then there will be an escape from calculus and combustion reactions.
Here pencils are used to write a different language,
one with a beat.
Between toe taps and smiles there's a place for the music to go.
It seeps in through the molded cracks and bounces around
like the acoustics.
Hold fast and don't blink, take it all in.
Go home and hum to yourself.
Sit down at the piano and remember the night spent
with the kind local stars
hoping to hear their sound
until the night breaks.

It's 75 degrees outside
and I still feel cold
I still feel the fall
I still remember how autumn felt last October
I still remember you in that red plaid shirt that I loved
I still remember the emptiness of that coffee shop
you never showed up
I don't know why we thought we could last the four years that you needed to finish writing that chapter
You never showed up
But I can't stop seeing you.

Inside this plastic orifice pulsates the vibrations of flies
Around the frontal lobe of the brain,
A honking trumpet of confusion and
Fake self-confidence,
            With that fake eyebrow raise of condescending question.
A drunk woman’s loop just spilling insecurities.
I remember when I was 18 years old
and so much more sure of myself
than I am now.
Now, my questioning analysis turns to stammering cindersm
My voice to quivering gibberish,
My spine to a trembling cane.
This is the age we were worried about,
Shaking coats off to try on new ones.
To be fearless again, a ****-talking hardass
With no reason to five a ****, no reason
To be ashamed of words I spit, the norms
I shatter, the growing genuine demeanor
I cherish.
My words leak off the page and down
The spinal column of answers,
Stacked and jacked for another gear change.
Green lime crime in a gray lipsticked
Lip-lock torn asunder in cheap talk.
I’ll stop apologizing for nature’s wrongs.
I’ll forsake the jumbled up mumbled mess
            That drooled down the spider fingers of
            Those lonely, lost days.
And for a coin, I’ll stake my life
On the candle that refused to burn
Because now the reason crests the waves of
Pedantic experience.
Made past the overly-viewed statistics.
The curves now drip away the
            Remnants of fabricated wool
            Into a bed of once exhausted syllables
            And frequented sobs.
Without a known ending, I’ll know this much:
            The insecurities are a bottomless chalice
            Full of the Catholic’s guilt
And the people you see around you
            Are warriors bred without Fathers.
Streamlined sick in a wonderbread coffeehouse,
These are the hours worth reckoning.

Vanilla. The bitter scent of a coffeehouse
mixed with sweet beautiful intelligence;
perfection; spontaneity.

Words run on the pages, joy can be found
in even the smallest of things.
Grounded; confident.

The white of innocence, not a single stain,
multicolored beige brings professionalism
in all its forms.

Life is a game of who knows who.
It’s impossible not to know her.

Abstract strings are pulled and tugged
until even the sturdiest of structures fall,
leaving the remnants on the ground to be
picked up one by one.

A sole painting filled with the reds of anger,
of love. The black and white stark
against the murkiness. Even the gold,
highlighting what went missing.

One. They’re still one. A little girl,
the blond bundles pulled into two
on the top of her head, seeing the world
from her father’s eyes.

Childish; just like he was,
once upon a time.

Just like he was, when those eyes focused
on the tough blue of denim, when
a fight was never an argument,
it was a game.

Who is right, who is wrong,
none of that matters if one never
backs down. She would never
back down.

She was never spontaneous.
She was a planner. Always one
to hold a grudge, always one
to win.

She was first. First
kiss, first love,
first date.

Her hair fell down on her shoulders
in curls, down in spirals
bringing him down as he fell.

He fell hard, looping back around
to the other side. Choosing jeans
over a painting. Choosing the chaos
over the calm. Choosing the calm
of a fight over nothing at all.

It was with her
that he’d find his love story.

I'll see you around, but
                                    not again on this empty floor,

the two of us in blankets, slept on our clothes,
woodgrain just out of reach.

Waiting at the station,
the 5 a.m. trolley home,
hands wrapped around my fare,

There's some memory of a dingy lastnight bar
where we chain-smoked through
the muted stop-motion of late-night,
whiskey breath and fingertips,
tracing the side of a face, the ends of nerves,

lost

in the traffic river crowd footfall,
at some patio latenight coffeehouse,
we were cinematic, mysterious under
the mercury lights that lit the sidewalk, that staged us

full, small, like hands wrapped around a cup with our name on it.

I need a new distraction,
And would ya look at you
Your tattoos,
Cigarette breath, and old leather shoes,
Oh my,  
God spent some extra time on you.
The way you walk,
You look so cool,
Rolling Stones tshirt,
Keep it old school.
A wild ride,
I can see it in your eyes,
I can hear it in your stories
I'm sure half of them are lies.
But oh ****,
You got it.
That thing that makes me crazy,
I didn't know what I was missing until I saw you, baby.
I need a new distraction and you're perfect,
There's nothing I can do
You walked into my sight and I can't keep my eyes off you.

Gently he'll take her in his arms,"Öh! my precious orchid"
he looks deeply in to her eyes, classic lover style, it still works,
that was the hope he finally clung on,her mother would murmur
something away from  his ears,to be careful, he didn't get her point.

her eyes were bright and deceptive, his Waterloo,those two were,
eyelashes always would flutter, as if she is afraid, he would abduct her,
how romantic, his heart jumps up at once in delight,
a shipful of bounty returning after the hunt of a lifetime!

"Could I call you anytime, please let me, even if it's too late"
she would plead, too cute,then pretend dejection, ah! he  likes it
as if he'll deny it and she can't bear that thought, her heart'd break,
he'd say" Ẅhy not, I'd anticipate your call all night"

he would stand sentinel,that night, wait for her call
hell, she won't call, not a day!, still can he go and sleep?
he'd meet her with bleary eyes, the day after so apologetic,
she'd get offended at his disheveled , mad look.

"Aren't you my heart's poem, then come to me little more decently"
asking him  to keep awake all night, this wasn't her speaking!
"Come to coffeehouse, sharp at  four" she is curt this time.
then, someone will come and inform, "She won't  make it today"

And when things get muddled, she comes running
and pretend **** apologetic,"Sorry, a fool I am, to hurt you, dear"
never did he tell her what she really was, never asked her to *******
she was a shipwreck, spectacular, rescue was someone else's business..

sitting in a coffee house with the one you love
but a dream
but a dream
aside from the unwanted discussions
it's a nice night
painting fireside's by hand
creating newspaper love notes
you wait
for him
when he finally comes
it's too late
loving him was like
a creaking door in the night
the feeling you get when you lean your chair back
right
before
you fall
yet you wait
not mentioning to anyone
that his hands remind you of the whole world
all the oceans and deserts
all the wildlife and grasslands
you must have forgotten
it's now four am and although you're tired
there you wait
and sit
and cry
cry to the god you don't believe in
cry to the ground he walks on
cry to your hands for ever holding his
cry until your tears run dry
making the rivers feel bad for you
his eyes on your chest
always felt good
always felt pure
but now it's dark and daring
and oh my
god
is he coming back?
or is that his shadow walking away?
i guess we'll never know
i guess we'll
never
know

Bohemian goddesses stalking the coffeehouse
All wiry hair and flowing skirts
Points of view and opinions and self worth
How her soul craved to join them
Don headbands and sandals and learn to be like them
To play the bongos and be part of natures and kove what’s real
She wanted to feel her soul in the mass joining of the human spirit

She envisioned it, and it was beautiful.

all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.

milk the silence.

fingertips trace the
splintered podium.

clear my throat,
once,
twice.

"We shoulduh' seen this coming."

great opener.

"Our end was scored
by symphonies of sitcoms,
reality television, coffeehouse blenders,
and fanatical braking.

Our pride in resilience was the
spark that lit the powder keg.

Foreigners couldn't stop us,
for we stopped letting 'em in years ago.

Time couldn't stop us,
for our bodies are made of plastic,

and words don't dent us,
for our emotions are backed by
the most stubborn of metals.

We broke love when we were still young.
All us boys were aiming for quick fixes,
and all you girls were aiming for margarita mixes.
Ladies decided they wanted to nest around the
smoking age,
and if they were attractive enough,
us boys bit.

We all got divorced.

We all got into politics.

Some of us died for a country,
but none of us are sure why.

Some of us ran from debt,
some recorded folk songs on laptops,
some sexed their way out,
some drank themselves to death.

We shoulduh' seen this coming.

But we didn't, so that makes you and I, the idiots.

The smart ones had foresight,
and departed us early.

Now we idiots look to the murderous sky,
and wait."

all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.

milk the silence.

i raise my arms up,
as though the crowd is crucifying me.

they want to finish their burgers.
they want to stroke each other's egos.
they want to pass the blame on some
distant land,
and stick boots up ***** and wave a few flags.

"So civilization doesn't get to rust,
it goes out in a flash and is carried away as dust.

Mankind annihilates itself in a fit of boredom.

Get stoked for the funeral pyre."

all eyes,
all on the ground.
all skin,
all plastic skin did melt.
all forgotten dreams,
all torn from hidden seams.
all the thin, the fat, the republican, the democrat,
all the white, the black, the chinese,
the arabs, the jews, the druggies,
the christians, the monkeys, mtv stars,
toilet seats, pamphlets,
all the newsreels, dvds,
collector's editions, suvs,
all fuse together,
all in one immaculate heat.

no one even got a chance to applaud.

The air smells of ground coffee beans and freshly brewed tea.
A girl sits by a large window that, sadly,
Doesn’t provide much of a scenery.
She sees her reflected self,
Her glassy eyes staring back at themselves.
She sees the reflection of the strangers around her,
Their hurried moments of affection,
Their lipstick-stained coffee cups,
Their involuntary displays of vexation.
They see their mirrored selves,
Their idle chatter,
Their fake smiles,
Their forced laughter.
It’s like watching a reality show,
Watching the lives of other people,
On a single glass screen.  
Little do they realize,
That they’ve been watching themselves,
Watching their own lives become other people’s lives.
On the other side of the window,
Passersby peer through the tinted glass,
Into the lives of these strangers.
A woman with her lover but not her husband,
A group of teenage boys trying to woo a pretty barista,
Two college girls trading ***** secrets,
A girl sitting all alone by the window,
Staring into space.
It’s like watching a reality show,
Watching people go on about their lives,
Seeing life without actually being a part of it.

Where do you stand.                Now
       Alone in the sun
       Miserable earbuds
       and backwards youme
                                       Forever
       this moment in the loneliest place in my life
       suburban parking lot, USA
       Covering secret hope with blankets of anonymity

       Money just cools them
                   Freeze each other LIKEICECRYSTALS
                   can't even be together
Never.       Even when it can't get worse
                   in the sillyfuck of summertime sticky countertop of hangover

Seasons without the hot seatbelt of safety
                   and the inoutness of us
                   not careful always
Sick bruised overdue goodbye
                   life sentence
Stealing it back with the work of no worries

Just hoping art still means something
just ******* praying it's not empty
                   like your neverpromises
                   and your didntlies

Cowering with broken heart fever
Burying strangers shrugs in coffeehouse choketears
Who-gives-a-**** cliche misery

I hope your own shadow haunts your periphery
                   Like narcissus' fear of drowning

Sometimes the goodbyes are should have
A whole year of goodbyes
All I wish for is the end

I wear my loneliness on the ring finger of my right hand, upside down.
A beautiful reminder of
Empty coffeehouse booths and
Cold bedsheets, imprinted only by one.

Someone asked me what his name was,
Noticed my confused glare,
And nodded quietly towards my hand.
I had slipped it on without looking that morning,
Right side up,
Wearing a fake lover upon my finger.
I stammered as I turned it around again,
Reassuring them of my loveless heart.

Any stranger, near or far,
Can see my loneliness.
The brilliant emerald embedded only proves
To be a distraction.

We’re alone, together,
The rhythm of the coffeehouse swirling around us,
A quiet cacophony of colliding ceramics,
flatware, and the splash of coffe hitting cups.
Each lost, writing on legal paper
I buy in daisy yellow in a small attempt to brighten my day.
The couple to our right aren’t anything spectacular, really.
Even though they did talk about
The drug market when you left for the car.

Even farther right, at a table you suggested, I sat with josh.
We came in early on a Sunday morning,
Stumbling clumsily upon a place he really wasn’t too fond of.
Funny, as he complained of the coffee and décor, I wanted to stay more and more.

It irritated me: his lack of knowledge or the willingness to gain one.
With you I’m comfortable,
And secretly, I wish he was sitting there,
So you could butcher him with words.
Chop off his 70’s ***** hair, with one swift cut,
Because you always seem to peg him,
Exactly where he deserves to be hit.

I love the contrast of the moments,
With him, I struggled to see, wished for more, and searched for an end.
With you, skin is velvet, voices: harmony, memory a beautiful cacophony.

My hair smells like you--
Old Spice and popcorn smudged
lips.  Hold the butter.
I want grease dripping
from your palms, a salt
sea of foamy yellow.  We
reject kernels bob along
unpopped, burnt, steamed to bursting
refused the right to blossom.

The neighbors have a noisy truck
spitting exhaust onto my rear
window. Gray. Hazy. Ugly
as the reason you're covered
in glitter.  You taste like gin
and ginger, orange tea and cold
chai latte, notebook paper
in a dark coffeehouse.
The elves are holding hands
but your hand is on my *** and
this movie's boring--wood
pannelling in a split-level apartment
above your father's bathtub.

Your mother wouldn't like me.
She's a ***** anyway.  You tell me
she can't cook because she can't
subtract.  But you're no good
at math either, lovely boy. Double
your handprints on my ***.
Curl your toes to the three-four swirl of my hips.

*******
keyboard
hamburger
blue
coffeehouse
smile

the
joy
citizenship
face
she's

Slapped
brightly

a
cold
lot
on
sweat
singing
Dance
merry
stuff
a
canned
about

mayor
of
Cool
macdonald
croudsource

major
was

work
loud
birthday
red
call
measure
workingclass
monogamy
silence
a
his
carnivores

down
street
manly

ordnance
every

happy
steaming
beginning
rattle
place
ukraine
sniff
serial
place
We
testing
laugh
bro
my
worker
of
crap
juice
water
canon
man
shuffling

the
bread
Shaking
fried
peanut
Johnny's
cleaninglady
based
upbringing
hums
flanberg
flames

the
brainface
got
of
before

awkward
flight
foresaw
on
black
She
travels
meaningful

fell
hamster
fighter
lack
correlate
was
day
colony

what
man
She
train
fortify

Guitar
piano

orange
intermezzo
butter
squints
cackling
happy
mate

hot

breadsource
browsers

that buzz starts
and my palms flood with
sweat.
the needle hits flesh
and it’s all familiar;

I’ve been here before.
still, it’s all forgotten,
except for the idea
that the images I’ve
asked him to mix up
on my arm are very comforting
to me.

Our Lady of Guadalupe
and an ink pen,
I’ve grown up surrounded
by both,

so to stir them together is safe
in its sacrilege,
not sacrilegious at all;

permissible in fact,
because of their combined power,
a display of faith in my own
ability to create, to destroy
darkness and demons

with notebooks and prayers
offered from a small stage,
through a live microphone,

or in a coffeehouse with
the newsman,
the laureate,
the tiger,
the bundle of nerves,
and the denim-clad
troubadour.

Our Lady of Poetry
will watch over us all,
in our church,
the church of the spoken-word.
*
©P&ZPublications; 2015
-JBClaywell

"hey *******, let's meet"
        i'm glad you've come to that premise
                the rain - its slick concrete
                     and so narrow
               staining the streets,
                  i would shelter you
        but here we are
                at coffee dropping hello's
          and following the pack
             to high ground
i would
keep
my
scarf
wrapped
'round
my
pretty
head
from melting in the rain turning to snow
        but little did i know
          i should have given it to you
to keep you from turning the snow red as strawberries
        these fall days you'll never know, here we go again
                to define a relationship whose particular lusters ferry
                        us together, i don't see an end, but if you bend i'll know when
to go.
i like the way you smile, here in this quiet coffeehouse
        despite you arguing with me, that is the cornucopia i offer

nothing makes me feel more alone than the way I'm in love with the idea of love. And how every new prospect drowns me in dreams of what we could be, who I should be, how this could happen and how it won't. Touching palms like we'd never torn apart anything of value and drawing parallels in the way we both sleep on only one side of the bed. Locking eyes like mirrors never made us want to cry and clutching memories like the hair on the back of your neck mid kiss. Let me know I'm yours, if only for tonight. Calling dibs through the flames and sending kisses to the escape. This is what I wanted but, I still can't get this web of missed connections cleared out in time. I'm in like with a boy who loves movies and a girl who defines sexuality. I'm in heat with a boy with weathered hands just because they make me think he's capable to handle the storm. I'm in awe with a boy channeling an ivy leaguer and a wise suburban coffeehouse. Wish me luck because I just don't think I can pull enough seats to the table to coexist with all my dreams and frantic attempts at being somebody I'm not. Who knows and who doesn't but most importantly who cares? Break this bread and let live. Take me or leave me.

I had a vision: something I never truly expected
A flash of something I wasn't sure I wanted
As I noticed the speck of green
that was you.

I saw your face against my own, no space
Between our breaths, between our eyes
Those deep brown, almost black
that are yours.

I imagined-or maybe not-returning here
Two hands entwined as they should be
One dark, one light - contrast -
that's me and you.

I swore I felt the rain against the window
In an apartment near a coffeehouse
With arms, strong, eternal, on me:
they are yours.

Then, I glanced up from my beautiful reverie
To a pair of eyes twin to mine, tossing coins
My heart, it plummeted alongside,
straight to you.

The second light of sunrise filters
through the blinds of a broken transom window, gliding the kitchen.
There’s an instant
in which bottomless jars, worn out dishes
and a headless Mickey magnet that has fallen off the fridge
Seem to levitate in a sea of dusty honey.

I haven’t witnessed the scene.

I think about all the other ordinary prodigies
That must be happening somewhere.
A trembling chrysanthemum blossoms in the frosty gardens of Nagoya.
Six grey wolves fail to hunt down a white deerling.
A middle aged man whispers into a hollowed stonebrick, then covers his secret with mud.
Two  giraffes disappear in the middle of a starlit Colosseum, to the astonishment of a roman dilettante.
Twenty years of boredom; then an ex con feels the tact of dewy grass under his feet again.
In a balcony over the Seine, two lovers prepare a padlock.
Some skinny kid from La Matanza scores a last minute free kick to win the neighborhood derby.
A pretentious teenager watches The purple rose of Cairo for the first time, and  discovers his true calling.
Days before dying, an old man stops by a bakery and inhales the same caramel fragrance he would inhale in the afternoons of his childhood summers.
An older brother decides to throw a game of Mario Kart to his sibling.
On a deserted reed bed, a blackbird sings the most beautiful tune in the world. There is no one there to listen.
A single mother finishes cooking breakfast for his son, and decides to let him sleep for another five minutes.
A physics grad student solves the meaningless quantum noise model that’s been torturing him for weeks, and stops wondering why he didn't choose to be a lawyer
Two old friends share the same espresso in a hidden Manhattan coffeehouse, perhaps for the last time.  

None of this everyday miracles are
happening to me.

the overlap of my headphones playing music and the coffeehouse music behind that with conversation of the strangers around me within that and the growing louder wind hidden below that deafens a clarity and silence to which I have not been exposed.  Maybe it's the espresso but more things make sense for now

there are days when
the sun seems out of place
setting in the north
you don't know
what you need or want
and don't go looking for it

still, fate happens
an unexpected encounter
a bar, a club
a restaurant or church
the market parking lot
the office elevator
a coffeehouse

a meeting of eyes
a glint of sunshine
or lighting
a sweet perfume
an accidental touch
an unsolicited opinion

a want for company
and social connection
a need for intimacy
and softness
a gushing of blood
running on instincts

small talk conversations
a tentative trust
in this age of
STD's and AIDS

the door is closed
lights off (or on)
no clothing not optional
protection a must

the warmth of skin
the heat of passions
the sweat of effort
the grunts of climaxes
uttered or unuttered
smiling, thankful eyes
calming a beating heart
with deep breaths
caresses and stillness

no commitment or strings
a confluence of souls
a fork in the river
a parting of ways
call it maturity
call it immoral
or sinful
call it one and done
written in the vaults
of heaven

In a hypothetical world,
I am a ***** goddess of poetry,
Enshrined in my coffeehouse castle,
my words the songs of a generation.
Attended by sugary seraphim upon my beach side throne,
my name resonates on the tongues of cappuccino demigods.
He, bespectacled, brilliant, falls at my feet,
quoting darkly my childlines.
As gilded graces join us in our dance,
we whirl through a city of stars into
our moonpalace home.
Fall through velvet loveclouds into beds of miracles.
Strongly carefree of wings or wheels,
tasting of copper and chocolate,
a literary, bad-­tempered love of scarlet phrases in my head.
He whispers, solemn:
“God has spoken, and he sounds like Elvis.”

I suspect that if I was taller,
I'd get laid more.

Think Basketball: I'd shoot my shot
over her friend zone defense and score.
Her weak knees would wobble at
my every move.

And there’s research to prove it:
the female psyche is hard
wired to conflate height with power.
Leadership. Responsibility.
Extra large shoes.
As if size mattered
more than say,
Endurance
as a true measure
of the lengths I'd go for the people I love.

Still, if I was taller,
I'd have an evolutionary edge.
I'd play the game
like a guitar.
Because guitar gets girl, right?

Picture this:
me strumming at heart strings
under the lights of a coffeehouse stage,
a tall post-modern Troubadour
with say, an east European or French accent.

A Filipino with a French accent:
how baller would that be!

I'd be unstoppable.
I’d have fans. Groupies.
Her phone number.
And the decency of a reply
to my text.

I’ll give the crowd what they came to see:
the tousled hair and rugged eyes,
the unshaven charm that makes her
want more by appearing to care less.

Hard to get: that’s what the crowd wants me to play
on that guitar
I barely know how to use.

(But I’m trying, right?)

yo who is it she's really after,
because that vertically privileged
guitar hero
sounds nothing like me.

I wish I was taller (high chord)
so she'd see me.
Because I am tired
of being turned
into a ghost
writing songs
for an empty room.

Guitar gets girl.

If thats true,
I suspect she won't get me
because maybe this isnt
the sound I'm supposed to make.
We'd just be pretending
to strike a chord on
strings attached
to a dissonant tune.
We'd play each other out:
a one hit wonder
on a radio station:

Guitar gets girl.

My nice guy cover falls flat.
My Asian appearance falls short
of the socio romantic standard she
is conditioned to fall for

Guitar gets girl
Same song. Play on.

And forget accompaniment (Ditch guitar)

All I need is a pen
to write lyrics
for my new single.

I’ll start a one-man indie band
and swoon in solitude
over who I sound like
on my own.
(Strum Flourish)