Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

fire at the caffeine factory

if starbucks burns down i’ll become one of those hopeless people
a human being in appearance
broken elavator on the inside

when starbucks burns down
i say when because
so many of my friends are convinced it will happen
on account of my dependency for
extra-shot-half-sweet-java-chip-frappucinos
that divine intervention would be
appropriate at this point

when it burns down

my son will have to watch me
a ruined man of 44
crawl the streets
sniffing asphalt cracks in the faint hope
of one last hit of sweet
roasted goodness

not knowing if it’s tuesday
wednesday
or thursday night
and forgetting to pick him up
from badminton practice

when starbucks burns down
my wife will leave me
not because of the state that i’m in
but to fly to seattle
in a desperate fit to slam one last
skinny caramel macchiato
before she blows her brains out

when starbucks burns down
the children of tomorrow
will become the children of today
because no one old enough to know
what caffeine smells like
will have any fucking clue what to do
with their lives anymore

-05.30.18

Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

lance

I’ve learned many things
over the course of my nomadic existence.

For instance,
the Lances of the world
aren’t at hockey games—they’re in academia.

They write failed poems and make salsa verde
on the weekends. They have best friends named Chris
and spend their free time searching for sales
on machetes. They never
try to squeeze onto a full bus, use the word
“epic” ironically, and call their dogs “Keith”
on account of their perfect teeth.

It’s a light existence
full of takeaway containers and reminiscing
about how good college was.

If it didn’t hurt so much
to stand in one place, I might think about changing
my name
and adopting that 500k a year lifestyle.

-05.24.18

Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

matter of taste

I’ve been thinking
about what it means
to only like white ice cream.

You say it’s a matter of taste but
I’m beginning to think it’s actually a showcase
of who you really are as a person. You say wholesome,

it strikes me that you don’t play nice with others.

You talk of simplicity, but you’re the kind of person
who wants, no needs their nuts,
and their caramel,
and a little whipped cream—
included free of charge, of course.

You tell me
that I need to relax, that we’re just talking
about opinions. It dawns on me that opinions
are great, if you have the privilege
to be able to hold onto them, to have them respected,

and that we aren’t really just talking about dessert anymore.

-05.17.18

Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

tumbleweed

He was a nice guy.

Your mother seemed to think so. Told you
that you reminded
him of that song and when you asked
him which, he wrote you a new one on the spot.

A nice guy.

The kind who would take you
to your favourite Marché Fermiers, learn to make
homemade cheese with you on your weekends off together,
and never dispute the validity of the Oxford comma.
Talked about taking you to London or Calabria.

A nice guy.
Except he only operated at one speed.

No roots would ever take hold.
No cedar hedges.
No small cabin on the outskirts of town.
Just arguments
over who got to take the cats
and gin fueled cyclones grinning

“I never promised you anything.”

A nice guy.

Tumbleweed not oak.
You were just an outpost where he could rehydrate
before rolling into the next town.

A caustic reminder of why you always
felt better tended to by bad boys.

-06.06.18

Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

the xanax kid

 

I was only 10 when we lost him.
It fucked me up so bad that they put me on medication and
I’ve been “the Xanax kid” ever since.

Pop had heart disease, the diabetes, cancer…
you name it, he had it. He knew
he didn’t have long and would spend most of his days
rambling about how his last wish was to meet
“that son’a bitch from Philadelphia.”

Ma’ and I wrote letter after letter for months.

About a week before what would be dad’s last
radiation treatment, we finally got a reply.
He was going to be in town, he would arrange to swing by the clinic.
Except, he never did. Something about
leaving a water-bottle in his carry-on and inclement weather.

Pop spent his last 24 hours
watching Cast Away on repeat and weeping
into his favourite white shirt and I’ve never
stopped blaming Tom Hanks for ruining his last Friday.

His last words were:
“I hope they have subs in heaven.”

-05.30.18

Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

crook

I heard someone
on the radio today, refer to that Right Honorable Cuckold
Justin Trudeau
as a “fine, upstanding example
of how a politician should behave.”

I say
there isn’t a prison cell small enough
for that crook.

Maybe an oil drum.

Wouldn’t that just be fitting?

It’d be a great place for him
to chill out and work through all of those
daddy issues.

-05.25.18

Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

small-town turds

I wonder if anyone else remembers Rory like I do? She was EVERYTHING. You couldn’t go to a protest without seeing her. Yelling, no, screaming at the top of her lungs about starfish survival rates and how fuckbois were ruining the social justice scene. You always felt a little bit lighter after talking with her. She had seen parts of this world that didn’t make sense to small-town turds like me.

Tom used to say that she was mucho mucho caliente, so much so that it made him itch. I thought we were done talking about women like that, but I guess he never quite grew up. I wonder how he remembers her?

Is there any shred of her humanity left in the back of his head or is she just the appalling stain that made front-page news?

It’s still the only time I’ve heard of one person needing two death certificates.

-05.24.18