Type

They said, So what’s your type?
I said, Haven’t got one,
But there must be more than two,
And if you’re in, me and you
We can play this game with no teams and no winners–
We’re neither the saints nor the purest of sinners,
But be my incentive for sticking around on earth,
And I’ll be yours too.
We’ll never find stars down here I’m told,
But our participation here’s prized above gold.

So let’s make a story about me and you
No need to represent
Nothing to represent
Not theory nor experiment.

This is a story about me and you:

 

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Just Ribbing

Did he think of it as birthing or purging when he tore me out of himself? It was hard to tell.

No sooner did he fixate on what he loved in me–the beauty, the softness, the fragility–than did he gag at reminder that it had once been a part of him. Then he sighed in relief that it was all now apart from him. As if he didn’t have more ribs where those came from. As if we weren’t made of the same bones.

And I thought: what a self-loathing creature to draw such a wall between what he loves and what he hopes to be.

But maybe that moment of shock was when he became determined to see no reflection of himself in whatever came out of him. His colorful musings were Pure Reason. His sappy tunes and poetry, Straight from God. 

Of course, anyone else could see otherwise, but I didn’t have the ribs to break it to him. Yet. When it came to the baby, though, we had to talk.

More Coffee Shop Logbook Poetry

 

Let’s call this collection ‘Oat Milk and Stevia.’

The Match:

Car-towed and phone-dead
You stumbled cold inside
Searching for a place to charge
So you could call a ride.
You couldn’t reach the taxi
But somehow, by mistake you
Came across some car-owners
Offering to take you.

You came looking for power
But upon further inspection
It wasn’t power that saved you
But rather, some connection.

A Haiku About Writing Over Sharpie Marks With Dry-Erase Markers So You Can Wipe Them Off (And Other Things):

The temporary
Is so quick to overtake
What seemed permanent

This Can Be The Last Poem Entitled ‘Almond Eyes’ Written:

Her eyes were like almonds
in that they produced a watery substance
that could not accurately be described as ‘milk.’

 

Poems I Wrote In the Log Book at My Coffee Shop Job

No More Decaf After 5:

It seems your arrival today was belated
Had you come before 5, you’d see we had made it
There’s tea* if you’d like your buzz more understated
But no more drip coffee that’s decaffeinated

*(Also: Decaf Americanos and other expresso drinks)


No More Music:

There once lived Alexa the bot
She liked to play music–or not
Because sometimes mid-shift
Her mind goes adrift
She’s silently lost in her thought


No More Chocolate Croissants:

There once was a Brooklyn-based BIT [Barista in Training]
Sometimes her customer throws a fit
If the one last croissant
Isn’t the type they want
But she smiles and she nods through that sh*t

 

Again.

Want to make change?
First you’ve got to make history
Out of the fantasies in your mind
Out of the thick air where you draw
Ghosts of some past to inhabit you
Who see ruins of pillars in the cobblestone
and say to rebuild
what always wasn’t
Again.