barista

writing poetry is like craving coffee. one bad cup, one bad line and the day is ruined. and i hate knowing that in order to love that first sip i gotta drink like 15 cups to find it. and the problem in processing caffeine is that everything starts happening at the speed of sound. shit gets missed. light becomes leaden. time blinks in and out while my senses try and make sense. noticing focuses then snaps like an oversharpened pencil. yet i keep writing with that hobbled tool making word shapes and letter sounds and sentence pictures. i once cut the line of a funeral procession because of over caffeination. i felt so bad that i wrote a poem about it. but i never apologized to the family in the lead car.  i keep looking for the line that was waiting in line. scanning for a raised hand at the back of the stanza. for the voice simmering just under the noise and the scribbles. coffee in coffee shops is easy, asking someone else to grind it out and brew it means that you are in their hands for the gift of the sip. hell you can even hand it back and ask them to make it again. and again. yet when these ridiculous dancing ideas meet dark roast and accepting paper, i light up. and if it rhymes easily, everything stops. and i stop. my heart stops. my coffee cools and i wonder if i should rewrite the whole piece around it.

missing

He's not here anymore
and then suddenly
he is
standing at my thoughts' door
knocking silently
he says
as he sighs
and rubs his
grey eyes
remember who you are
first then conjure me
or else
I might have to ignore
your caller id
sometimes.

26 steps

head bent
and staring down,
you say

i’m good, i’m good

in
rasped out
air
ripped edges,
punctuated
by that
beeping sound
somewhere.

this is not good.

you lying down now,
but not resting.

26 steps.
26 minutes.

where did you go?

you were gone
too long.

confused,
i wondered
why walk?

why,
try to,
do this thing?

I mean,
the stained sheet
maps out
exactly
the imagined spaces
of
what you
still control.

and
this very short list
reminds me of something.

when the body betrays,
who can you blame?

two persons
are created,
which is most trustworthy?

I shift
uncomfortably.

when
did I stop
seeing
you?

all as one.
aggregated.
whole.

I see
that what was
and
is,
now stand
at duelling distance

across from
will and wanna be.

mind torn from body
embraces the imaginary.

your body
right now
stealing the future
and
eroding the past.

twice you forgot my name.

once I disappeared
right before your eyes.

is the imagined
now that you seek?

is that why
you wanted
to walk?