Last year, you were gracious
We sat attentively listening to your endless commentary
on the making of coffee and watched carefully as you used your two hundred dollar
coffee machine and grinder to munch up cooked beans and
make them into brown slightly oily bean juice
and so long as we were sufficiently impressed, we could partake.

This year, you gossip behind the scenes
approach people about what to do about me
drinking your coffee creamer, which is also special
and you stare at me with a look that seems to want
me to make your world flourish and grow and the sun to shine
on you every day and to renew your life with my heartfelt amazement
at your being
like a mother at her newborn child

And I am only trying to survive, and you have plenty of coffee creamer
so I can't even make it up to you, and I do not share your worry
that someday, you might open up the now crowded fridge and find nothing
I do not understand this kind of devastation
It seems petty and silly to someone like me who has woken up
to the blood and guts and body meat scattered around
her own life and had to scramble and fear and survive somehow

So when confronted, there's nothing I can do
but apologize, and I dissapoint again by not sharing things in common with you
and this angers you and you behave like an ignored child because I'm supposed
to share your world and interest and if not at least fake it because
that's what you need and I have the body of a mother
who is to give to the world who needs and needs
and that is supposed to be my job, my vocation
and my only wish in life

So I make my own bean juice and it's foul and rancid but I don't care
because the truth is, I never cared about your coffee
like a lover who is jaded and has given up, I was only faking it

so I noticed that we both drink coffee.
just like anyone, we both like ours a certain way.
i like mine sweeter, with just the aftertaste of coffee there.
caramel, sugar, creamer.
i think about when i’ll have my next cup, and the idea of it alone makes me happy.
i don’t care what time of day i have it, i almost always have a cup.
i make time for my coffee.
it might be safe to say i think you like your coffee black.
you might add just the smallest touch to soften its bitter taste, but never too much.
sometimes i think you just pour it and carry on, as though it’s nothing important at all.
as though all it is, is just some quick fix.
like you just want to get it over with.
we drink it in two different ways.
i drink it slowly.
i note every flavor in every sip, i enjoy it.
i note the warmth it brings me.
i like it all hours of the day.
you drink it quickly.
quicker than me, at least.
you don’t care if it burns your tongue, or perhaps you’re used to the pain.
you accept it.
you never let it last, you move on to something else soon after.
i lay in your bed, watching your eyes as they skim the screen in front of you.
your mind is somewhere else.
i savor the moments you look my way, if even for a second, and smile at me.
i wonder if you even notice them.
i feel your laugh vibrate my bones, making the hair on my arms stand on end.
do i make you feel at all?
i reflect on it every time i drink my coffee.
i think about it with each and every sip, taking my time.
something tells me that you don’t do the same.
after all, it's just coffee.
but i put my all into this coffee.
i think you like your coffee black.

round as the top of
tea cups, white as creamer in
coffee – ***** are sweet.

Bittersweet
the rush of caffeine
the warmth inside my bones
it's social graces
but...
bitter yes
Ma'am where's the creamer again?

Some things are just too strong to take
on their own. Like my coffee
harsh, bitter, and black, offensive
to my tongue. But still so necessary
is the caffeine wired within, so vital
to the start of my long days.

But I can make it bearable. Add some
non-fat dairy creamer + sugar. Just fluff,
it’ll go straight to my gut, to get
the caffeine past my tongue
and wake me, allowing me to see
what I could not when the alarm
first screamed.

I'm so passed overthinking
My overthinking over thinks
The thinking I'm overthinking
To the point I'm thinking over
What's over thought and I thought
I was over this
Just didn't think it over enough
dilemma dilemma
yeap
Hold on we're in for a bumpy ride
Airwaves collide
I'm pretty sure we've been here before
I'm confused
What was the thought
Somewhere amongst this chaos
I forgot the original thought
Now I'm overthinking
A thought that can't be found
Wait wait
Oh yes I remember now
The thought was simply
Peanut butter or jelly
On the last piece of toast
So both
Or one
But which
Rock
Paper
Scissors
How do I answer this
It's an impossible equation
1+1 is good
1+the other is good
1+2 makes 1
But I wanted to share it with you
So now there's not enough
Either way
So what do you prefer
Before my brain cells implode
Giving up on the hope
I'll ever make a decision
That will justify the reason
Why I'm overthinking
What to feed you for breakfast in bed
Maybe just coffee...
Wait which brand?
How strong?
More or less sugar?
Too much creamer!
**** it I'm going to work
Everything *****
When over-thought thoughts
Become thoughts we've been over
Overthinking themselves
Into non-existence
And I forget how
I started this conversation with myself
Or what it no longer pertains to
What was I talking about again?
Oh yeah do I have everything
What did I forget
Wallet
Keys
Phone
Socks
Shoes
Pants
Shirt
Necklace
Hat
30 minutes later it'll remind me
I woke up hungry
Couldn't decide what to feed myself
It's too late, I'm late for work

I walked into a 7-11 with you and  then all of the sudden I stopped and starred,
not because a loud and angry guy was screaming at his kids not to touch anything,
but because,
the coffee in the pots were cold and less than half full just sitting there on the counter
and no one was going to come in and drink it,
it would be left there to sit all night getting colder, until someone dumped them and cleaned them out, that's how I was before you came along,
I was a cold *** of coffee left over from that morning that no one wanted anymore,
you see, you seemed to drink the whole coffee *** before it even had a chance to get cold,
And if it did get cold,
You'd drink it anyway,

You got ecstatic over the thought of having caffeine in you to wake you up and make you lively again  
And I love that about you

You are different
You don't care about my non-coffee drinking past
You don't care about the dark rough grinds that took over me and made me undrinkable
You don't care if I was French pressed or keurig'd out
You still love me

You'd still love me if I was skim milk
If I was a skinny fat free latte
You love me now, even when I'm whole milk
If I became a double chocolaty chip
And I love that about you

You love my "I wanna white mocha latte",
and my "I need an iced French vanilla coffee from Dunkin' Donuts right now!",
And my "I am on a first date with this guy walking around with this amazing dude spilling a watered down small coffee all over my hands because I am so nervous, AND I DONT EVEN CARE BECAUSE I DONT KNOW IT YET BUT HE WILL BE MINE FOREVER!"

You're that kind of "I-don't-need- another-espresso-shot-but-I'll-take-an-extra-one-anyway-even-if-I­-do-have-to-pay-fifty-more-cents" type of guy,

Because in the end I realized paying that extra fifty cents was worth it and I'm glad I did
Because this is the best cup of coffee I've ever had and i don't want any other kind,

And I wish I would have tried this sooner and I want this feeling to last forever, because this feeling is nothing like I have ever felt before, it's like the first time sipping a different kind of coffee and not sure how it's going to taste and then all of a sudden your taste buds start going crazy and you lose your **** mind because it is so good,
And you want the cup of coffee to last forever, and it will,
Because you will keep going back to your most favorite and amazing cup of coffee for every day that you live

We went to Dunkin' Donuts again the other day,
We're known as the 7pm coffee drinkers,
One of the workers that's always there gave you two free to go cups,
We're there a lot....

The first thing I gave you was a small coffee with cream and sugar filled kiss,
the second thing was a gift card to a coffee shop,

I love you a latte
And you know i espresso a lot of feelings towards you
You're my 4 packs of sugar
My hazelnut and French vanilla creamer
You're the first thing I think of when I wake up and what keeps me up at night,
You and my coffee
Us and our coffee,
Surprising each other at work with a 16 oz coffee in our hands with a dumb smile on our faces

You are the reason I am happy
You are the reason I love coffee so much
You are the reason I wake up
You're the reason I ask if you want coffee
And the baristas at our school have an odd look on there face when I order not one but two cups of coffee and they can't help but wonder if there's someone they don't know about
And there is
It's you
And you are mine

i want to get to know you.
i remember thinking that when i first met you.
i wanted to get to know everything about you.

what you look like in the morning, what you look like at night, what your hair is like if you jokingly put it up in a towel, what your family is like, what words you use a lot.
what your favorite scent of febreeze is, what color you describe the sky as, what you think of when you see something beautiful.
what your favorite creamer is to put into your coffee or if you even like coffee, what you look like at 2am when you're feeling alone.
how you speak when you are angry in comparison to when you are sad (so i will never get the two mixed up), what you want as a tattoo, what you believe in.

i wanted to know everything that i could fall in love with.
and i learned that there is no one else i would rather know, than you.
because absolutely everything about you is intriguing, from what you look like in the morning to what you dare to believe in.

Sisimulan natin ang storya sa tatlo kami,
Siya, Si iyun at Si ako
Tinitimpla mo parang kape
Siya, siya Yung nagmimistulang asukal sa buhay mo
Siya, diba tapos na siya? Bakit bumabalik ka pa?
Siya?, siya na pinapaasa mo at ginagamit mo.
Siya, yung nagiging pangraos mo kapag nangngati ka.
Paano naman si iyun?
Si iyun yung nagmimistulang creamer sa buhay mo.
Isang palamuti kumbaga.
Isang nagbibigay kulay sa mata ng karamihan
Paano naman si ako?
Ako yung mapait, ako yung bitter kung tatawagin.
Ako yung pinaka-importante yun ang iyong sabi.
Anong sabi? Bitter ako?
Oo bitter ako, kasi hindi mo alam na mas better ako.
Eh paano kung ang siya ay nawala?
At yung si iyun ay wala naroon?
Pwede bang gampanan ni ako yung dalawang yun?
Pwede ka naman magkape kahit barako lang
Walang creamer, walang asukal
Pero may pait para magising ka naman.
Pero diba ang kape ngayon ay mas tinatangkilik
Kung mas matamis at mas makulay?
Dahil ang kape ngayon ay halos wala ng kape.
Pero babaliktarin ko ang epekto ng kape sayo
Magigising ka kapag wala ng ako

some winter mornings
last through the spring,
sweeping in between wind chimes
and dusting over windowsills,
until our bodies are numb
and our minds are racing
i don't feel pain in the winter time,
pain feels me,
all curled up in the fetal position
with fuzzy socks
and war paint
at the edge of my sheets
december never stings,
it burns.
a softer,
quieter,
gentler
kind of agony
that whispers tauntingly
through the shower curtains
at 5 am and says
"why did you bother getting out of bed?"
oh and how that cold, cutting voice
gets stuck inside your head...
at least until spring takes
it's last cool breath

Everyone writes about coffee
The embedded love
The innate passion
That’s brewed strong
That’s filtered long
Everyone talks about coffee and love
Everyone compares coffee to love
Everyone forgets its natural taste
Everyone forgets its bitter taste
Its rancid lingerance
Its putrid flavor
Everyone forgets to write about coffee creamer
The artificial sweetener
The true romancer

Are you aware
of the music you make, Cricket?
Can the grass be ticklish to your toes?
Tickled like trapped foes.

Toads and toad bumps.
Frogs salted on salted Slugs.
Creamer for the chocolate night,
Are you alive?

Sentimental over fingerprints,
my wings wandered
three centuries ago.
Where they went nobody knows.

Three lights captured in my eye:
one is the bedroom
one is the trumpet
one is the theatre

Hip bones have red suns.
Flowers crawl on skyscrapers.
Barns and bugs with spotted bellies.

Cracked a mirror on my foot,
wish it stayed the evening
and for supper.

Could have gone home
but instead, harvested Winter
in Mexico.

pondering about words floating in my head,
making pancakes, OH NO!
Have no batter!!!!
batter, batter...?
Hmmm, Batters up! - baseball, Hmmm Baseball!
Oh no not again....
Mixing what I have to make pancakes in this pan....

Eggs...Yes, Eggs!
looking in the fridge!
got the egg case out - while putting plates down!

Hmm, carton... yes, Carton!
carton.... like a box!
opening the plastic carton,
taking a look, what have I got!!!!

.....Only one Egg left...one egg LEFT!!!!!
......Man this is bad luck!!!
Stuck with one egg to scramble - an I tossed it on the plate.


I got up an made the coffee :)
Yes!!!! Did one thing right!!!!!

Going to the covered to get my favorite mug!!!

Mug shot....jail!!!! HA!!! Ill never go there....
never mind that, jk. so got my mug....
HA! Mug rhymes with bug!
Bug an chugg an hugg.....

My mind wonders too much!!!!

pouring out steamy coffee, in my favorite mug!!!!
walking to the fridge, to get the creamer bottle.....
OH NO!!!! IT EXPIRED!!!!
LAST WEEK!!!! What a Wreck!!!

What Have I done!!!!
Im so lost in my mind,
I couldn't think of One thing,
except...What's floating around in my head!!!!

So Got my Black Coffee....Yeah I said it...BLACK COFFEE!!!!!
Expired Creamer....From last weak!!!

Got my Plate which contains only One.....ONE SCRAMBLED EGG!!!!!
Late on groceries, To busy Thinking of poetry....
(lost in a mind full of luxurious words)

Well got My Pancakes....IF THEY ARE PANCAKES..?!?!
I forgot what I put in it...! Oh, Gosh!!!!!
NO mix for my pancakes, must of finished it LAST MONTH!!!

Sitting at the table With half the meal of my breakfast...
No batter, 1 scrambled egg, an Expired creamer...from last week!!!

Eating distortedly at the table, Plop...There goes a mess.....
Getting napkins...oh wait Napkins!!!!
Forgot to BUY them!!!!!
What's Next!!

Chipped cups containing
cold coffee. "Carefully child,
carry cautiously."

The coffee is on
It won’t stop simpering
The mugs are jingling
The sugar spoon is glistening
The creamer is singing
Hello, come make your morning Joe
Hurry on now
You’re not paying for this show

I’m just trying to eat my french toast and drink my coffee but you keep cutting me off as I’m about to take a sip take a bite asking why I like it with sugar i add a spoonful of creamer and you’re laughing
but not in a loving way
talking about my schoolwork and my plans for the garden
and you skip over the congratulations and mention your ex girlfriend
going on about your ex girlfriend and my face has hardened
i drink my coffee and try not to listen
i eat my french toast and i don’t pay attention
i’m looking at the man with the book eating alone
i’m looking at the waitress wishing she were home
excuse me and i’m up
the bathroom is empty and nobody saw me
the mirror is clean and i am *****
the lights are brighter than i want them to be
and the soap dispenser is empty

sharing a spot of brilliance with you
yes, it will touch your internals
only if you want it to*


Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the ******. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.”                       ― Rosemarie Urquico








S T, 5 July 2013

I.
Dear Mr. John, always the usual.
We go out every morning, greet
each other the way the sun greets
our skin. We let our fingers do their
own travelling on our palms. Like the
way the sun’s fingers set foot on our
skin. I am talking about the sun today
so that you may be reminded of warmth,
warmth, like the way you eagerly
take the cup of coffee to your lips,
and your tongue sets foot on Mexico
or Dubai. The desert’s sands flooded
your lips all too quickly the moment
you spew out that first sip of coffee.
I don’t recall being stifled the way
you expect me to be. My lungs are
bellowing to the laughter you had
brought me, warm, fuzzy, like it should
be. I find it hard sometimes to take
it seriously—to think that you are
in pain at that moment, first degree
burn and all of that. Smoke rises up
from your cigarette, why should I
worry? Languid as the air in the café,
we let the day stride itself, too serious
for detonation of seriousness, to the point
that even this poem or letter is a joke
worth some peso from your pocket.
It’s not hard. It’s hard to let this moment
sink in, melt like the sugar, granules of
coffee, and creamer on a boiling
cup of water. Boiling, like blood
that goes around our rooted veins;
we let this boiling pass through our
hearts, let it stay a little while till
languid takes it all away. It’s not
that hard, to be honest. Not that
hard to make your own coffee
at the morning’s call. I don’t understand
why you need me so much only on
sunrise due.  I fell tired of your voice,
high and low, as my alarm clock,
every morning till
the sun says we got to go
on our separate paths. I always find it
too hard, like chemistry had not taught me
to separate the mixture of water and coffee.
Too hard as it is easy to combine them. Morning
is easy and when the sun bows down at night,
I remember the whisper of the wind, how it is cold,
freezing what I thought as summer touched heat
of my cup. Cold and heavy like the block of ice
that is my mattress. I find it too hard to recollect myself,
lay bare and stay still as midnight whisper your name,
blew yourself into my window. And I wait for the morning,
heated like the coffee we enjoy. I wait for you
at that moment. But I realize my time is only worth
the length of sipping a hot cup of coffee,
and not a length of conversations worth spilling
on our tongue. I wish it was the words that we
spilled. And not the coffee.

II.
Dear Mr. John, thank you.
Thank you for the invitation to be
at your side every seven in the morning.
I find it warm, like the coffee that centered
between us. Between bellowing laughter
and languid awkwardness. The wind whispers
northbound as it should be. It says to follow its voice;
it’ll take me home. Alone. Like I was programmed
to do. The caffeine had lied enough. It’s normal
after all, for drugs to set in, form delusions and
whatnot. I’m tired, and perhaps I need
a little sleep, slumber for eternity without any
whistling midnight calls, no coffee smoke
to tickle my nostrils, no rising. Nothing.
That’s enough sleepless nights to think
you good. There’s the barista, I assure you
she’s good at what she does. Call her,
ask for the coffee you’d want at seven
in the morning. Converse with the newspaper
so that your mouth will spill not just words,
but important **** that you’ll never thought
worth a peso off your pocket. Spend the morning
not alone, but with the company of ghosts
that are too warm to even call a ghost.
And this time, when the sun had finally
heated your coffee, learn how to wait.
So that this time, a kiss on a cup
won’t burn your lips. Like how
it’s supposed to be.
So that this time, you won’t ****
your cigarette like you used to.
And this time, I can sleep
till noon.

"And Abraham drew near, and said,
Wilt thou also destroy the righteous with the wicked?"
- Genesis 18:23

I

There are about four thousand people
Here.
They throng in blasted heat like
Little arid wasps.
Gasping summer rain,
Like the opposite of fish.
Of their individual character
I can give no generality.

They are men and women,
They stand on roofs and
Sleep on their words.
They are hot and cold
And they hate and scold.
They are devils and stars
And ***** and priests
And children of priests.
Orators, they are also:
The speakers of the state (which
Is hotter than they could
Ever know); they steal
And reel and impose their
Splitting fingernails deep into
The varnish of the
Wishing well.

They are men and women,
They stand on roofs and
Smother dreams by spitting on the sky.

II

Fox. Come and light my little room
With your brilliant breath. Have you
Come very far? From the eye of the trees?

I should leave this little town if I were you.
It has its ways and leeches from our
Dangling hands. A tongue named Lethe.

Wake early and flee back to your dark,
Summon that green corpus shell that
You came from and follow its outlying root.

You should know the power of the vine.
It crawls in the blinding night and
Strangles what it cannot feed upon.

Oh my little fox, I beg you turn back,
For in familiarity lies strength and nothing
In this wilderness will give you nourishment.

III

He walks in waterways and crunches bone.
He watches moonlight play on open wounds.
He wishes dearly for the ends of weeks.
I heard him live his life without a sound.

The high school band with a treble clef. The year
Of empty penmanship in which he wrote
A thousand notes and mailed them underground
About which neither parent knew a thing.

Encounters best discovered some years later
Work to redden ears in coffee shops,
Or rather as I’m talking to him now,
With darting speech and halting eyes and all.

Perhaps the atmosphere could lend itself to blame,
The hormones and the collusive ennui.
But little charms the tear ducts quite like saying,
“Why am I this way, do you suppose?”

I haven’t got the heart to make reply
And often pose myself the same question
Before the mirror thinking of my whims,
The muddied roads that led me where they did.

My time has run itself to pieces in
The hope of spreading my horizons, but
Some sand runs faster in the way, some gains
More ground. And mine? This distance is unknown.

I licked the shelves of Hardy, Plath, and Keats.
I lorded over idiots with glee.
I lured the fathoms of my mind to float.
And oh, the things that he must think of me.

IV

The doors know I am coming,
They dart out of my way.
My telekinesis stops there
But I troll forward
And brandish my little iron steed.

****. Adjust my strap
And push the cart onward.
My purse like a little leather
Bundle of swaddling.
I nuzzle it close to my breast.

Frozen foods. Diet says
No carbohydrates, so I adjust
My tastes. In a little town
Like this, they’ll notice if
I don’t.

Magazine aisle. Nothing
But ***-endorsing rags
And godless photo sessions fit
For lining shelves and
little else.

Lord, this vast store!
Give me strength to bet back
To my car. God, look at
That **** at the pharmacy
Asking for birth control.

And I can’t help but
Cluck my tongue at her:
I just tell Ray I have a headache
And turn on my back.
Ha, as if she’s married.

No decency any more.
Men getting married, women too!
God supposedly “Banging” us out of
Star dust. Who are those atheists
To judge my truth?

Checkout. No, self-checkout.
I don’t like that clerk
Staring at me. Receipt.
Probably a ******* anyway.
And for a moment my mind controls the doors and all things.

V

She’s gone a bit insane.
Yesterday in class, she asked
To go to the lavatory
And just went straight home.
(Poor thing, I can’t blame
Her after all that has happened.)

She’s told me about her
Father before. Whether she’ll
End up as warped remains
To be seen. She’s got my sympathy.
(Mother dead at four, brother at
Seven and something else at twelve.)

Senior year is more than
Freedom from Dad, she says.
It’s freedom from myself,
Whatever that means.
(It is her father’s profound wish
That she memorize all of Revelations.)

From the grass, she tells me
That her father explained to her
That non-dairy creamer kills
Ants. She does it with a smile.
(We don’t have to say much more,
Suffice it to say he’s a very loud man.)

She still has an averse reaction
To stories about car crashes.
And I never read her her
Early July horoscope.
(Nightmares are too kind.
Panic sifts through windowpanes.)

Her uncle doesn’t call from
The old hometown, he was
Grabbed from her life and her
Father never says why they moved here.
(Two years her junior, she jokingly
Calls me Grandma because)

She hates her real one. Prom
And graduation. A candle
Ceremony and she’s gone.
Her father left before it was over.
(I’ll miss her, but I made
Her promise not to visit.)

VI

Hot like a miracle breath.
The two seasons: Summer
And February.
We taste the heat
And drive away for the weekend.
Of course the world ends
And the “Welcome to” sign.

Unsurprisingly,
The radio dies as we
Head back to town.
Why should the death of
An intangible surprise me?
Everything else
Dies here.

Pessimism like a mockingbird.
The smoking trees
Ripple like an Ella
Fitzgerald vowel.
Hold your
Miraculous breath
And it still won’t rain.

Our abortion
Welcomes the needle heat
with a  horrifying
Little finger.
That smile,
That smile.
Jesus.

How can it stay so
Hot? No reply,
But I forgot who
Was asking.
The irony of this ****
Town sparks my
Smile.

VII

So where are you from?

        I lived up north
Before I moved down here.
They needed teachers and
I thought “Why not?” Turns
Out this place is a lot
Slower than up where I
Came from. No offense.

(Laughs) None taken.
So what are you teaching?

Senior English. Pretty cool
Subject but I was shocked
How little the kids had been
Exposed to. I hope to remedy
That soon. (Mumbles something)
Any more problems, you know?

The parents have complained?

Oh, just the usual nitpicky
Silliness: “I don’t want my
Christa or Johnny reading
Such-and-such a book.”
After a few years, I’m
Sure the parents will lighten up.
Or, (Laughs) at least I hope.

How are the kids?

Can I actually answer that one?
One or two brights but most
Just seem ready to get out.
They’d better be willing to put
In some actual thought if
They really hope to. (Pause)
It’s not all about sports.

(Laughs) I hope you’re not too
******* the athletes. They do their best.

Well, I certainly hope
They do. I won’t play
Favorites or anything like
That. Hardly fair to the
Others, right? (Laughs,
A pause, tape ends.)

VIII

He can’t breathe.

He’s been running for
Hours.
The trees. The brush.

Wonderful veins blast
Away at their work
To preserve him;
Great fibrous tendons
Work to carry him
Away from the noise.

The murderous streets with
Scoured buildings
And trees inviting the
Convening crowds to lay
Out their burdens, to
String them up and
Ease their hard frustrations.

They have not seen him as yet.
He follows Polaris,
god of the irreverent,
Meager candle for a
Drowning man.

Exposed road; he flags
A car like a madman.
Well, we shan’t go
So far as to call him that.
And has he any bags?
No.
And which way is he going?
North.

Procession. Silence.

The coolish progress
Of a blackish
Summerish
Night.
How many minutes
out of town? and how
many moments in the
rounding cruelty of acting?
The driver smiles in his driver’s
Seat, eyes lit by the green
Display, ears filled suddenly with
Static.

The bruised night
Raises its single, white eye
Like the ponderous pitch
Of a bird.

I suppose he knew from
The second he saw the car:
There was never any sanctuary
In this little cloister.

The towns spreads like
Botulism over both windows.
He stops before the courthouse.
Stops before his jury,
Hanging judges.
And you needn‘t ask yourself
“Who are they?”

I’ll tell you.

They are men and women,
They stand on roofs.

They are boys from California
Who ran like foxes but refused
To run away.

They are musicians who lived
Their lives without a sound.

They are hopeless hags who
Speak in blinding grocery stores
And **** the gossip air.

They are girls with opportunities
Burst like an innocent cell
And violated by the heavy hand
That tucks them deep to sleep.

They are cruel little ******* who
Only wanted something to listen to
While the seasons spun around them.

They are teachers who never learned.
They are hearts that never burned.
They are heads that never cooled.
Not when it’s so hot outside.

They grew uneven like a story
Written in celebration of a meaningless title.
They have every right to be angry,
And yet they level their stones
At one another instead of the
Hell a glass house can become.

They walk so slow the sun
Can stoop and eat them up
Without the briefest guilt.

The gurgle of the coffee maker,
The clink of your spoon on the frigid counter,
The sizzle of bacon residue in a frying pan,

and an egg cracking over it.

The murmurs of the news reporters on the tv,
The distant roar of a train in the background,
The dive into sensory pleasure,

while reality dissipates.

The smell of hazelnut creamer and cinnamon,
The taste of a waffle with buttery syrup,
The warm sun on your face through the window,

today is good; today will be different.

The giggles of the waffles and coffee,
The light conversation and hard laughter,
The feeling of home... within them,

a sudden shift in atmosphere.

The sharp loss of appetite
The grieving of what wasn’t lost
The shared remorse for nothing you’ve done

they tell you that you’re pathetic.

The despair in your mug dropping into the table
The swallowed tears and screams
The chaos that covers every square inch of you

distance between you and hope still stands.

The ***** kitchen and your empty stomach
The distressing moonlight that creeps in the window
The anger in thinking you’re liberated this time

sounds of an empty home stir.

The cold seats that have accompanied nobody
The wallowing roar of silence
The jacket of despair that wears you

your average day.

Today I put too much creamer in my coffee
the result was a milky brown
resembling your eyes
and breaking my heart

Love mourner
Angst angler
Thesaurus eyer
Rip-rapper
Suet idler
Dream creamer
Cascade scribbler
Intro-***-er
Guts gusher
Endorphinater
Sonnet snoozer
Trochee tripper
Iambic lamer
Spondee sniveler
Whisper whipper
Music quencher
Apt-less  adjectiver
Yeast yearner
Simile stitcher
Metaphor monger
Exclaimationizer!

People always argue as to which of the two is more important:
Words or Actions

They say the pen is mightier than the sword,
And in a different context
They declare that Actions speak louder than words.

But instead of defending which is better, I say we must change our view and see that the two is ever better - together.

Like the sun and the sky, they both serve different purposes, but together they form the perfect weather.

Like the lead and eraser, they come from different places, but as they set aside differences, they become together a useful tool known as a pencil.

Just as coffee always taste better with creamer, And chairs work best with tables, so do Words and Actions when paired together.

Because without each of the other, words mean nothing and actions won't clear anything.

So instead of fighting over which "speak" better, I suggest we value them equally, because

"Actions accompanied with Words speak louder together"

Coffee creamer rain drops,
wet and thirsty and cursing the turkey
who said too much water was too bad.

Bring on the damp leaves
and the damp seats of pants.
Splash on droplets dropping from branch
to sea level.

Salvia, spit it up, into your
baby bird's mouth and
drop some on me accidentally.

Flood tiny concrete rooms,
irrigate me.
Smother in luke-warm raindrops,
and I scream when stink-bugs press their
wet little pad toes on me.

Dampen everything!

most of your favorite musicians are underrated
and I like you more for it

2.
you take your coffee with two spoons of creamer
and three spoons full of sugar, and I'd like to drink some coffee with you sometime

coffee stained breath
two spoons of hazelnut creamer
three packs of sugar
how intoxicating
this invigorating kiss

drenched with caffeine and passion
your tender lips
wrapped around mine
in youthful innocence

Cigarettes and coffee and you.

If I had to name three things I couldn't live without,
I guess those would be the things. But it’s not an addiction,
per say. I only like cigarettes when your callused fingers
offer them to me,
your wordless expression showing concern and contentess.
I blow away our pain and worries and pass it on for later,
thinking I’ll make some coffee again today.
For both of us like I usually do.
Coconut milk in yours and creamer in mine, right?


My toes are suddenly cold
I dip them in these tender aqua waters,
juxtaposing itself with the Tampa humidity
that laces my cup. I can't tell if
you resting your arms around my waist
brings a fire within me
or if it gives me chills.
I start swaying to some synonymous tune
that happens to play in both of our heads at this moment,
even though the only music is
the wind whistling
through the shells and stems of the palm leaves.

My lips are, coffee and cigarette and you stained.
The painful heat always disrupts this heavenly time for us.

So we’ll meet here, same time tomorrow.
I wouldn't want to live without it.

thinking about what to write..... *idea hits

& she looked so amazing walking out of her house with the beige dress I had bought her for her birthday the month before.
“Hey my handsome prince, where are we going today?” she said.
“Well my love, for our anniversary we will be planning out our dream date together… how does that sound?”
“You always have the best ideas, lets go to “the spot” and write the ideas down…… but first, can we stop by a 711? You know how we get when we’re on high caffeine and full of ideas. I feel like we deliver them more properly, plus I just woke up an hour ago so I could use it”
“Sure thing babe.”

I always wondered how she could say the right things at the wrong times… although all went bad, her words always picked my knees up from the ground when I took the wrong turn.

At this time, I don’t think I’m at my best, but I know that if I lead the road while holding her hand, she’ll know exactly where to turn when I swerve off road.

This moment is special and I’m currently watching her move her head around to our favorite song on the train going to Pearl.

May 27, 2015// WHY DOES THIS GIRL ADD SO MUCH ******* CREAMER IN HER COFFEE *** SHE IS GOING TO DIE OF OVER CREAMING…. THAT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE AND IT ALMOST SOUNDS WRONG… DAVID YOU’RE WEIRD… 2:04 Pm.

-David Bojay

I could see the places we were passing on the train from the reflection in her eyes. I never thought I could see the world in someone’s eyes. I can feel the tilt of the earth when she changes emotion and her eyes change in shape.

“Dream Date List // May 27, 2015”

1. Go to Downtown Dallas
2. Art museum
3. Ice cream trucks
4. Meditate at Klyde Warren in the middle of the field
5. Go for a walk Downtown and try to get on rooftops
6. Get on green lane and go to Deep Ellum to get serious pizza

“Babe are we almost there? I forgot where the stop was..”
“Yes my princess, we’re almost there”
“I’m so ******* hyped dude ***, I like how I can call you dude and feel comfortable like… dude….dude… dude dude dude nothing can tear us apart dude. I love you dude. **** too bomb dude. Dude you’re daddy as ****. Dude. Dude…. See? Our bond is one of a kind and we’re both kind of crazy. I wonder where we’ll be in 5 years”

“To be honest, we’ll probably be in a loft in New York doing a lot of drugs and on Spotify. That would be “goals as ****” don’t you think?”

“Boy hell nah you got me ****** up we are both going to work and make that mullah baby!”

Nothing could crack our humor.

2:54 Pm, May 27, 2015

DAVID DUDE, YOU MADE IT WITH THIS GIRL YOU LOVE… SOMEONE CAN HANDLE YOUR CRAZINESS.. DUDE WHAT THE ****… SHE’S LIKE….. LSD??? CLOSE. WAIT… NO… SHE CAN’T BE COMPARED.. **** I’M SO YOUNG, AND SHE IS TOO. THERE’S SO MUCH MORE TO EVERYTHING….
ART
MEDITATION
WATER
ENERGY
BREATHING
PROTEIN BECAUSE GAINZ AS ****
BOOKS
CONSCIOUSNESS
QUANTUM PHYSICS
PSYCHOLOGY
MONEY (**** THAT)
PASSION
NATURE

THERE’S SO MUCH MORE TO ALL THAT, I AM ONLY 17 AND SHE IS TOO

-David Bojay


We stepped out the train and I had waited for her to get out first because my mom always told me to always let the lady go first…. and so I did.

“You hungry?” I asked
“Not really… but I will be after we smoke this..”
“Did you really just…. you know us so well it’s almost kind of alien of you.”

We were walking towards the elevator and I was talking about how I was about to ******* the other night to the thought of her grabbing my **** at my old church while everyone was praying… we both worked a different way and we thought the idea was…. doable.

lights blunt
“It’s funny how we’re so annoying to each other yet we can’t get enough of eachother… I guess you the one huh?”
“David, to be honest… you’re too much for me sometimes… but holy **** I always want you around…. you’re such a sick ****.”

starts to laugh

“Dude… babe… do you feel that? I THINK THOSE ARE FEELINGS I FEEL TOWARDS YOU AYYYY”
“You’re ******* lame” HAHAHA.
“Come here..”
smack smack muah muah **
“Ugh you always kiss me at the wrong times… I ALWAYS GET WET AT THE WRONG PLACES… SEE THIS IS WHAT I MEAN BY YOU BEING A SICK ****”

Time goes by so fast when you want it to last forever. Whenever something feels so good, the impossible is wished and you want the delusion of “forever” to be actualized.

“Remember that time you told me I could never be able to make you *** in under a minute?”
“Uhmm yes… you can’t…”
puts hand under my pants
begins to stroke aggressively

The view was breath taking… or was she just taking my breath away.
“The Reunion Tower is so small compared to the others, but I guess it has a better view?” I thought to myself while she was jacking me off.

“TOLD YOU I COULD HAAAAA, YOU OWE ME HEAD NOW”

“*** I DIDN’T EVEN FEEL IT COME OUT WHAT THE ****…. MY **** NUMB”

3:48pm, May 27, 2015

YOUR PAIN IS MINE NOOOOOOW
THIS SONG IS SO GREAT
WE ARE SO CLOSE
WE ARE ON EARTH
GROUNDED
WE ARE HERE
TODAY
RIGHT NOW
LOOKING AT CIVILIZATION IN “MODERN IN TIMES”
IN 20 YEARS THIS WILL BE SO OLD
TECHNOLOGY IS ADVANCING SO FAST FOR HUMANS TO FULLY UNDERSTAND THIS
WHY ARE THEY KILLING SO MANY TREES
MAYBE PEOPLE LIVED LONGER BACK THEN BECAUSE THEY HAD MORE OXYGEN TO BREATHE
MAYBE OXYGEN IS LIMITED TO EVERY INDIVIDUAL AND SOME OF US JUST TAKE DEEPER BREATHS AND THAT’S HOW WE DIE YOUNGER
I DOUBT IT BUT ****… I’D BE DEAD AS **** ALREADY BECAUSE MEDITATION
WE ARE HERE
IN THE NOW
WHICH IS TECHNICALLY THE PAST NOW
NOW
NOW
NOW
TIME IS…. I DON’T EVEN KNOW

-David Bojay

Walking towards the art museum, we had talked about how men are just like animals, they target women with big *** and *******. We share information like if we were Gods communicating.
In my opinion, we are Gods… we are put in a person's life at a certain “time” and we deliver messages from a higher consciousness to them and they do the same. I think it’s fate, we need eachother. We need to communicate.

“David, throughout all the fights…. I ******* love you so ******* much and I appreciate you so much for listening…. I’m trying to tell you how I feel when you already know, I just thought it’d be romantic…. I’m such a fool for you… in the gayest way possible.”

I looked at her and smiled… she already knew what I was saying. It’s like if we could communicate with our eyes.
As we walked into the art museum, we noticed everything was so productive. The art spoke to us in a language on our eyes could try to understand and our minds could read if we really looked at it.

“Do you think it’s possible to understand art David?”

“Art is like a human, it never really stops changing. It renews itself like how our cells do. It has purpose, and that is to keep the world alive. To make life worth it in the moment, and the moments gather and moments put together is called “LIFE”. I think. Art is every subject you know blended into one. It can only be understood if you choose to box it in a place where it can’t breathe. Let it breathe. Let it flow through your mind like how blood flows through your veins.”

Every painting spoke to our minds and the more we observed, the more our minds opened and let the angels and demons of the art dimension live in our heads.

“I’m getting pretty hungry now?”

“Pizza my love?”

“Yes please.” **holds hand

// 4 minutes until green lane arrives //

“You guys happen to have any spare change? I’m just trying to get something to eat, I’ve been out here sin..”
“Look man, I don’t really care about your ******* story, I don’t believe it.”

Nobody needs to explain anything if they need it that bad, it’s yes or no and if they do explain, they’re lying to you.

Arrives at Serious Pizza

“What would you like darling? Anything you want, I got you.”

“Oooooook mister big ballah.”

“Shiiiiiet you already know.”

As we were eating, I noticed how unafraid we were to eat infront of eachother. The days, people are so afraid to be themselves and act scared because they’re afraid they won’t be accepted by how they really are. You have to find comfort within yourself before anything.

“Are you full yet?”

“Yeah I’m pretty ******* full, you want to head back to the park and chill?”

“Yes, plus we still have to meditate over there remember?”

“Oh yeah, well let’s dip.”

As we get to the park we find a spot and just sit for a while without saying a word. Sometimes silence is needed when the world around you is being noisy.

“Cross your legs and close your eyes, remember not to name the sounds you hear and to just let every emotion settle in, let it sink, and let it go. Practice your deeper insight and just relax.”

During meditation, being comfortable is key because if something is bothering you, the practice will be interrupted.

// 20 minutes pass //

“We’re so small, but it’s crazy how you and I are the change.”

Our conversations really put us in the right mindstate and that’s what made our spiritual sides really connect. We are one and together pain is numb.

phone rings

“David my mom said I have to go home….”

“Already?”

“I know babe… sorry. We’ll schedule something this week for sure.”

Getting on the train we both realized how tired we were and how the high wore off.

Together our love could break barriers, they might as well not even exist. Barriers are just limits created by someone who was too afraid to give it their all… to unleash their full potential.

“Hey, want to read a poem I wrote for you?”

“Why would you even ask?”

“Ok here we go, I’m still not finished but you’ll get it…”

“The world is there for you
My arms are open
These envelopes are yet to be sent
When the leaves fall don't change your mood
You've been one since the start
Don't die on yourself over someone or a situation you can control
Your strength is the equivalent of that of a bull
Love will come and go
But self love stays and I hope you love yourself just as much as you dream a guy will love you as much as I did
Look at the waves clashing for you
Admire the sky that's falling for you
******* yourself for the eyes on you
But stay strong for they are not all pure intentions
Feel free to test but not enough to cause relations“

“ I want you to know that your words are imprinted in the deepest parts of my heart and that they’ll remain there for the rest of my life my love, we will prosper through the thick and through the thin of this life we judge so much when we try to understand it. David I love you so much and I hope you never forget that.”

“ I won’t princess, I promise you that I won’t.”

silence for the rest of the train ride

7:57 Pm, May 27, 2015

TODAY WAS ******* GREAT
DAVID
YOU ARE IN LOVE
HOW DOES THAT FEEL
HOW DOES IT FEEL HUH?
YOU ARE 17
YOU ARE A DREAMER
YOUR DREAM CAME TRUE
I’M WATCHING HER SLEEP RIGHT NOW AND IT FEELS LIKE IF I’M IN A MOVIE

OKAY WE’RE ALMOST HOME…

-David Bojay

“Wake up baby, we’re here.”

“Dude I’m so glad we’re home, I’m tired as ****.”

“Tell me about it… get up… the doors are opening.”
We were holding hands on the way to the car and telling each other jokes, time finally felt still.
The sun was close to setting so we sat on the curb and just watched the sky sink into the ground… at least that’s how it looked like from a distance.

We stood up and walked to the car, I opened her door and let her sit down before I shut the door.

I stood there for 3 seconds looking at her through the window… she blew me a kiss and I stood there and smiled.

Walking towards my door I had to face the truth… I opened the door….


the seat was empty, my heart was too.
I hope she’s resting easy.
I hope her spirit was with me today, I knew it was.
The delusion felt so real, so so real.
My mind sees what it wants, I talk to the air as if it was you.
I spread my love, as if you were there to grasp it.
I hope you know I miss you, so so much.
I don’t know where I’ve been, and I don’t know what I’ve been getting myself into.
Your ghost is so beautiful.
I wish you were alive to celebrate our anniversary.
We did everything you wanted to do…. I mean… I did everything you wanted to do on our anniversary.
Today was in memory of you my darling, I’ll prosper if you guide me.
I’m really good at pretending you’re alive, I wish it wasn’t all just an illusion, I wish I wasn’t so ******* crazy.
I wish you would’ve never ******* died.
I’m dead inside, but my breathing is split in half so we can share my life.
I hope I prosper.
Why did you have to leave?
I miss you.
Baby.
Dude.
Whenever you decide to come back, I’ll be waiting and we’ll relive today… forreal this time.

8:23, May 27, 2015

DAVID
YOU’RE SHAKING WHILE YOU ARE WRITING THIS
YOU ARE CRYING
YOU ARE CONSCIOUS
YOU ARE ALIVE
SHE IS PASSED
DAVID
WHY ARE YOU SO CRAZY
YOU SEE HER AND SHE’S DEAD
SNAP OUT OF IT DUDE
I CAN’T MAN
DUDE
PLEASE
NO
I CAN’T
DAAAVVVIIID
PLEASE STOP CRYING
THIS SHEET IS GETTING WET
DAVID
I THINK YOU SHOULD GO HOME AND GET SOME SLEEP
DAVID
YOU WILL BE OKAY
YOU WILL PROSPER MAN DON’T GIVE UP
PLEASE… DON’T

- David Bojay




I love you so much.

Im sorry you had to walk all the way up
now and then, i wonder:
whats the world gonna be like when*
your heart stops pumping with compassion
and reality has lost sight of you
i don't really know but
i think that  
I'll never synchronize
to anything that brings me to my last day
when will i have i to lose?

----------------------------------
       *cold creamer in
my coffee.
     the steam, slowly deteriates &
   before my eyes.
prior to its disappearance
    i got a quick and
shallow glance
at the scrauol as it is lifted
into the air
sublime was the way then
in the murky November vapor
I love what i have
and all i have is giving me
hindsight? zero to 100 percent . epiphany.
some call it sin of gluttony
im loving how much i am feeling it
nasty cold december is tempting me
and I'm needing a bit more rest
than the amount you have given me
but i didn't even think about leaving
* i am loving my stay*
-----------------------------------
not the intellectual property of i but instead cherubs drifting in the past

coffee, so delicate, yet so simple.
it can give you the highest of buzzes,
to the deepest of thoughts.
coffee is a blank canvas.
the drinker is the artist.
splashing vibrant coats of sugar and milk, creamer flowing from brushes. spoons clanking and stirring a beautiful picture.
creating one of a kind work.
to each cup of coffee his own.

An uneasy knowing:
Hand on the doorknob,
Intuition hinting at what's
Through the keyhole.

Excuse me, while I
Make my way back to the womb
And coalesce into an egg once more.

I must relearn everything I was ever taught.

I must rethink everything I ever thought.

"My soul shall not be bought,"
Is a declaration not an "Oh, I ought to."
Tangled in some narrative, stuck like glue;
Convention is convention
Regardless of where it's acted out,
Chugging a cheap beer or slinging back a stout.

Let the wild eyed lemurs out!

Femurs shriek ****** ******,
Shin splits from sprinting to get coffee creamer.

Benz,
Bentley,
or
Beamer?

Out of place in small town USA,
But the monster makes itself the new normal.
Wear jeans to the semi-formal, but
The after party is her call.

To make the future or **** it all?
Is life an experiment or a free for all?
Is it neither? Is it nothing at all?

Squeezing the eyes out of a stress ball,
Touch pleasing thighs as the curtains draw...

Ka-caw! Ka-caw!
I am, I am a triumphant toucan!
Flapping wings flowing fluttery alchemy,
Making circles out of straight lines,
Crafting stories out of blank mind.

It comes in time, I guess,
The mess of me cleaning itself up gradually
Only to regress under sea level again
And again, becoming a canyon,
The slow deposition, the bearer of men.

Redheaded and clucking mother hen
Drinking hot water, honey, and lemon,
Patronizing old explorers like Magellan.

Tune into the past, oh sugar sweet one,
Inflicting beatings with flagellum,
Stealing treats and eating them,
Mountain peaks and chewing gum.

Puh-*** puh-***-***!
Our heads make good drums,
And our bleating makes good melodies.

Can you teach me the song of the trees?
Can we at least save the bees?

Nectarine mornings and small, knobby knees..
Mommy, please, put my hair in pig tails!
Pick up the worms off the sidewalk,
Watch out for the snails.

Lay me down into a hay bale;
I'll send you snail mail from
My heavenly little hell.

What's that smell;
My baby blanket or an ex-boyfriend
Lingering underneath my nose hairs?
In smoking scents do memories construct their lairs.

Do I have a care?
Do I have to care?
Is it a curse to be aware?
Is it a curse to think that, to dare?

Something fragile hangs in the air.

Teeth grind, sweaty night mares,
Water and oil, oh! What a pair.

Fingers uncoil from around your neck:
Slender ghostly feelers beckoning,

"Come destroy yourself with me."

Cast my body out to sea,
Playing saccharine melodies, but
Send my soul out separately.

If you're a bird than I'm a stone
You are time & I had to toll
If you are lonely, I am alone
You rock but I don't roll

You are coffee, but I'm not creamer
You're a realist, **** that, I'm a dreamer
You are Han Solo, & I'm Boba Fett
Sometimes I think it'd be better if we never met

I hate you I hate you I hate you

I don’t want to be the girl of your dreams. I don’t want you to put me on a pedestal because we all know pedestals crumble and break under pressure. I don’t want you to think of me as someone who’s out of your league. I don’t want to be the girl you secretly admire when you can’t muster enough courage to say it out loud. I don’t want you to think of me as the one who got away when in the first place, you never got a hold of me. I’m not going anywhere and this is going nowhere. I just want to be the girl you think of years from now when your hair is already gray, when your eyes are tired and you’re stirring your morning coffee, thinking that you should’ve poured less creamer in order to resemble my dark brown eyes.