This matches the atmosphere of pre-pandemic Ineffable Cà Phê–
seated at a mahogany table stealing vibes from strangers. Ahead:
a Jennifer Lawrence doppelgänger wearing monotone, who types
quietly in a portrait mode of cedar wall & soft lights, spooning phở;
next table over, prospective homebuyers: a Kyle Wolff in
a psychedelic Dixie Cup shirt alongside his partner, crumpled over
with a realtor who holds printed-out pages of wanted foundations.
The agent leaves and they scroll Zillow; there is a void where you
used to be; October sixty degrees spent inside, no regrets this
Halloweekend. I spy on everyone. Nebby is what Pittsburgh calls it.
I look up to see a white bowl covering a face, noodles dangling
off lips chased with chop sticks. The amber light’s flatness inspires.
Indie Interpol playlist a throwback to spending days at Muggswiggz
in Canton with Tony, soliciting strangers on Myspace for randomness.
I haven’t changed as much as I wanted. Crumbs from the bread
of my chicken bánh mì, scattered across my laptop. I swipe them
away, but dislodge more in the keys the longer I type.
(originally published in Picture Journal, Fall 2024)
cafe
every time the door
every time the door
opens a burst of frigid
air gobbles the field
whole milk in my
mocha latte to
fight winter sadness
defines the palette
of the room monotone
grays beside the fire
extinguisher sign
points to a cheap
Hewlett-Packard ink-
jet no one has used
since being on this planet
I have grown purple
grapes of jadedness
thorny arms hug nothing
I have to say
(originally published in Books ‘N’ Pieces Mag, Winter 2025)
Insignificance
I watch the line of people accumulate,
a metaphor in front of me. Because nothing
can exist without some deeper meaning.
How people walk in and out of my life
in this coffee shop and I obsess on
the butterfly effect. I occupy a table,
but there are five open tables. I drink
from a mug, but there are many mugs.
How can everything mean anything
in such insignificance? The chatter
grows louder. I need follow-up reports
for every single person who steps
inside while I am here, especially
those who look and leave quickly.
I need to know how my insignificance
becomes significant– a small gust,
somewhere.
(originally published in Toasted Cheese Literary Journal, Winter 2023)
At Azorean Café
The party behind me laughs
in my sadness. The blue walls hang
hook in me. Even the painted violets–
islands. How can a restaurant make
my table larger? I am spreading out–
a tendonless goo– and still, the
server checks on me. I swear she says
have the Portuguese custard carcass.
(originally published in The Los Angeles Review of Los Angeles, Summer 2020)
For Once I’d Like to Hear You Over My Brain
The endless universe of this coffee-church
I blend into the ground, ground
anxiety into yours, I met you there, pit-
pattering footsteps I couldn’t stop
listening to. I asked myself
if this was a joke
the way only nervous nothing I said
to you. Yah-yah-yah.
I am awake, I know
over this river I
Jesus-walk miraculously
you reach your hand
to me–
cold, wet illness.
Neither of us are
here.
(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Winter 2021)
In This Cafe You Thought You’d Find Solace from This World
through speakers 70s music bass
guitar heartbeat pulsating through
a weatherman chants forecasts out
of sync a microwave beeps the shrill
coffee machines trembling cash
register slamming baritone voice
barista says he has bad hearing you
said something before sandwich fan
spins no rhythm stringed spurt richochet
solos quiet everyone reading books
tablets not responding to chaos burnt
bagel wafting sorry sorry the window
rain begins drum drum drum drum
one two three four the faucet spits
on everyone walks in don’t you
want somebody to love?
(originally published in IthacaLit, Spring 2018)
Young Skeletons
the baristas grind bones into coffee
in these cafes I call skeleton closets
this golden-brown-haired babe stands by my table
her laced leggings draw desire with a fine ballpoint pen
her head whips to me from some psychic seventh sense
she is my ex-girlfriend’s brother’s future ex
her eyes descend as B-movie UFOs
attraction vacuums neatly into a plastic bag
she sits with me like a pocketed thunderstorm
galvanized on The Great Wall of Chain-Link
you must believe me she says
there are no hard feelings
a poacher must say the same
beside a rhino’s castrated face
she asks if I come here often
I say I come hard everyday
just the flickering moon will summon the wolf
and we emulate its growls in fluorescent light
time is our species’ one enduring invention
a new carcass will not survive the night
so hold on to your corpse for as long as you can
until we mourn with our friends the forgetting
(originally published in The Broken Plate, Spring 2016)