College Is -
Laundry's done at 9pm
and homework started later.
Gotta get it done for chem,
but the appeal of Facebook's greater.
Twitter Grook
To tweet an update of your life
may seem of great importance,
but know your followers
don't care a whit
about your supposed brilliance.
Poet's Lament
My muse has gone,
such terrible news
I can't even seem
to sing the blues.
Poor Life Choices
A grande latte at nine o'clock
seemed a good idea at the time.
Until suddenly it was one o'clock
and sleep was still not mine.
Nine to Five
We work and work
at the daily grind,
and it drives us berserk:
make money, lose mind.
Redheads are -
A ginger kid I am not,
though my tongue is sharp
and my temper hot.
Don't call me a witch,
but understand this:
redheads are fierce, bitch.
Author's note: please forgive the hideously bad, lack-of-sleep-induced pun in this next one. Thank you.
Paradox
There's a dock to your right
and a dock to your left
but don't let that confuse you.
It's really simple in the end -
a paradox: pick one of the two!
11.19.2009
The Customer's Always Right
1. Venti Nonfat Caramel Macchiato
She saunters in wearing designer skinny jeans, a Louis Vuitton bag dangling from her arm. Almost forgot the nonfat in her order but the barista could’ve guessed that anyway. Probably drives an Escalade, probably dropping the kids off at soccer after picking them up from the local private school, probably not going to leave a tip.
She slides Dior sunglasses onto her forehead and whips out an iPhone, reads a text, taps her foot impatiently while waiting for her drink. Maybe she’s actually picking the kids up from soccer, maybe she needs to go home and start making dinner, which her husband will be late for because he works all the time to keep her driving that Escalade and wearing those Seven Jeans.
Or maybe, thinks the barista with a smirk, she’s meeting a secret lover somewhere. Maybe they’re going to rendezvous in the next town over while her poor shmuck of a husband is at work and the kids are safely at soccer practice. He calls the drink out, hands it off, watches her spin around and leave, and shrugs. Guess he’ll never know one way or another.
2. Tall Soy Chai
There’s a guy who’s been studying the menu for a solid five minutes. He rocks slowly on the balls of his feet, letting other customers cut ahead of him because apparently he’s waiting for someone.
Finally, she arrives. They make an odd pair - he a grungy hippy type, she in clothes readily available at any major mall. He extends his hand and she smiles and takes it as they walk up to the counter.
“I’m not a huge coffee drinker,” she confesses to her date. “What’s good here?”
“I’m not really either, but I’m a big fan of Tazo teas, especially the chai.”
“Okay, yeah, you order for me then.”
He smiles and greets the barista. “Two tall soy chais, please,” he says confidently, hoping and praying that they taste good because he’s actually never had a soy chai in his life.
3. Tall Black Americano with an Extra Shot
“Hey, how are you today?” chirps the barista.
“I’m fine, thank you, and how are you?”
“Doing well, thanks for asking. What can I get started for you?”
“Hmm. Yes. How many shots are in a grande Americano? Two?”
“Actually there are three in that one, sir.”
“Okay, yes. In that case, can I have a tall Americano with an extra shot?”
“Sure thing - any room for cream in that for you today?”
“No thank you, just black.” He pays, pushes his wire-rimmed glasses up on the bridge of his nose, and takes a seat in an armchair by the window. He drinks the Americano unsweetened while reading what appears to be Sartre’s No Exit in the original French.
Except that it’s actually a Stephen King novel, because, for all his presumptions, he doesn’t understand a word of French. Or Sartre, for that matter.
4. Tall - Wait, Mom, Can I Get a Grande? - Sorry, I mean Grande Strawberries and Creme Frappuccino
The majority of pre-teen and early adolescent customers at Starbucks order frappuccinos of some sort - usually caramel, vanilla bean, double chocolate chip, or strawberries and creme. This is not a hypothesis. This is a fact. And the bracefaced middle schooler standing in front of him is no exception.
Strawberries and creme, please. She turns to her mom - she wants a grande. Usually the mother stands firm, but this one relents. She orders a tall nonfat latte for herself, and then it becomes clear - she knows little Susie or whoever probably won’t finish her grande frappuccino, and she’ll be able to have some herself, guilt free.
5. Hot Chocolate. Oh. Um, Small?
What she really wants is a tall doubleshot on ice, light ice, extra shot but half caf, with vanilla syrup instead of classic and skim milk. But that’s just too high maintenance. All her coffee-related drinks are incredibly high maintenance, but she doesn’t work at a Starbucks any more so she can’t get away with ordering them like that anymore.
She sighs, orders the hot chocolate, and pretends not to know that Starbucks uses “tall,” “grande,” and “venti” in lieu of the basic small, medium, and large. Oh, what she wouldn’t do for a grande iced soy green tea latte - except that she only really liked it when she was able to make it (otherwise the matcha powder gets all clumpy and gross), and they certainly wouldn’t let her behind the counter as a customer. So a simple hot chocolate would do.
“Ma’am? Would you like any whipped cream on that?”
“Oh. Sorry! Um... yes, please. Sounds good.”
She saunters in wearing designer skinny jeans, a Louis Vuitton bag dangling from her arm. Almost forgot the nonfat in her order but the barista could’ve guessed that anyway. Probably drives an Escalade, probably dropping the kids off at soccer after picking them up from the local private school, probably not going to leave a tip.
She slides Dior sunglasses onto her forehead and whips out an iPhone, reads a text, taps her foot impatiently while waiting for her drink. Maybe she’s actually picking the kids up from soccer, maybe she needs to go home and start making dinner, which her husband will be late for because he works all the time to keep her driving that Escalade and wearing those Seven Jeans.
Or maybe, thinks the barista with a smirk, she’s meeting a secret lover somewhere. Maybe they’re going to rendezvous in the next town over while her poor shmuck of a husband is at work and the kids are safely at soccer practice. He calls the drink out, hands it off, watches her spin around and leave, and shrugs. Guess he’ll never know one way or another.
2. Tall Soy Chai
There’s a guy who’s been studying the menu for a solid five minutes. He rocks slowly on the balls of his feet, letting other customers cut ahead of him because apparently he’s waiting for someone.
Finally, she arrives. They make an odd pair - he a grungy hippy type, she in clothes readily available at any major mall. He extends his hand and she smiles and takes it as they walk up to the counter.
“I’m not a huge coffee drinker,” she confesses to her date. “What’s good here?”
“I’m not really either, but I’m a big fan of Tazo teas, especially the chai.”
“Okay, yeah, you order for me then.”
He smiles and greets the barista. “Two tall soy chais, please,” he says confidently, hoping and praying that they taste good because he’s actually never had a soy chai in his life.
3. Tall Black Americano with an Extra Shot
“Hey, how are you today?” chirps the barista.
“I’m fine, thank you, and how are you?”
“Doing well, thanks for asking. What can I get started for you?”
“Hmm. Yes. How many shots are in a grande Americano? Two?”
“Actually there are three in that one, sir.”
“Okay, yes. In that case, can I have a tall Americano with an extra shot?”
“Sure thing - any room for cream in that for you today?”
“No thank you, just black.” He pays, pushes his wire-rimmed glasses up on the bridge of his nose, and takes a seat in an armchair by the window. He drinks the Americano unsweetened while reading what appears to be Sartre’s No Exit in the original French.
Except that it’s actually a Stephen King novel, because, for all his presumptions, he doesn’t understand a word of French. Or Sartre, for that matter.
4. Tall - Wait, Mom, Can I Get a Grande? - Sorry, I mean Grande Strawberries and Creme Frappuccino
The majority of pre-teen and early adolescent customers at Starbucks order frappuccinos of some sort - usually caramel, vanilla bean, double chocolate chip, or strawberries and creme. This is not a hypothesis. This is a fact. And the bracefaced middle schooler standing in front of him is no exception.
Strawberries and creme, please. She turns to her mom - she wants a grande. Usually the mother stands firm, but this one relents. She orders a tall nonfat latte for herself, and then it becomes clear - she knows little Susie or whoever probably won’t finish her grande frappuccino, and she’ll be able to have some herself, guilt free.
5. Hot Chocolate. Oh. Um, Small?
What she really wants is a tall doubleshot on ice, light ice, extra shot but half caf, with vanilla syrup instead of classic and skim milk. But that’s just too high maintenance. All her coffee-related drinks are incredibly high maintenance, but she doesn’t work at a Starbucks any more so she can’t get away with ordering them like that anymore.
She sighs, orders the hot chocolate, and pretends not to know that Starbucks uses “tall,” “grande,” and “venti” in lieu of the basic small, medium, and large. Oh, what she wouldn’t do for a grande iced soy green tea latte - except that she only really liked it when she was able to make it (otherwise the matcha powder gets all clumpy and gross), and they certainly wouldn’t let her behind the counter as a customer. So a simple hot chocolate would do.
“Ma’am? Would you like any whipped cream on that?”
“Oh. Sorry! Um... yes, please. Sounds good.”
Who Puts Ketchup on Their Hotdogs Anyway? (A Haibun)
As I stroll up to the Amtrak station I see the train is already there and break into a sprint, caring less about my North Face sliding off my shoulders in the morning chill than I do about missing my train home. I rush onboard and plop into a seat as we start to roll away - past the bottom of Kalamazoo’s campus, past towns in Michigan I’ve really never heard of, past trees, vineyards, trailer parks and cornfields. The air in the train is stale, the morning outside slightly overcast, and I’m sitting across from a woman with a mullet.
A phone call to my mom, a 90 minute movie, and we’re in Illinois. The clouds part and the sun shines brighter as we cross into Chicago, flocks of Metra trains greeting me like cherubim trumpeting the wonders of funding public transportation. Some Michigander passenger points out “US Cellular Field” to her daughter and I cringe. It’s Comiskey Park, I want to say. It’s Comiskey Park and Marshall Fields and the Sears Tower and can someone PLEASE get that stupid UFO out of Soldier Field?
I jaywalk to hail
a taxi, because this is
Chicago, bitches.
A phone call to my mom, a 90 minute movie, and we’re in Illinois. The clouds part and the sun shines brighter as we cross into Chicago, flocks of Metra trains greeting me like cherubim trumpeting the wonders of funding public transportation. Some Michigander passenger points out “US Cellular Field” to her daughter and I cringe. It’s Comiskey Park, I want to say. It’s Comiskey Park and Marshall Fields and the Sears Tower and can someone PLEASE get that stupid UFO out of Soldier Field?
I jaywalk to hail
a taxi, because this is
Chicago, bitches.
Sestina with Yellow Schwinn and Mythical Million-Eyed Monster
This is a story of boy meets girl.
The boy had a sheepish manner and carpenter’s hands,
and the girl listened to baroque pop while riding her vintage yellow Schwinn.
He gazed at her with sleepy blue eyes,
which she returned with a playful smirk.
This is a story of boy meets girl – but that doesn’t make it a love story.
“I’ve found that happy endings kind of ruin a story
for me,” remarked the girl
with a coy cynicism, cradling a coffee cup in tiny hands.
It was raining, droplets of water collecting on her yellow Schwinn.
She challenged him to challenge this statement, a playful glint in her eyes.
He granted her only a smirk.
In late September of that year, the chain fell off her yellow Schwinn.
He offered to repair it, entertaining her while he did with a story
of a mythical beast with a million eyes, eyes
that saw past, present, and future, and of the girl
he fell in love with, a girl with perfect and delicate hands
which the beast greatly admired, for he had only claws and a snarl where she had a smirk.
She asked if this story had a happy ending with a mischievous smirk.
“It’s a beast in love with a girl, what you do think?” he asked, testing the pedals on her Schwinn.
“Not everything can be Disney-fied. She’s no Belle.” He wiped the bicycle grease off his hands.
She said it was a good story, in that case. “You owe me a story
of your own now, y’know.” He wondered if she knew he was the beast and she was the girl –
except he saw a very limited view of the present with two – not a million – eyes.
She managed to reduce him to a puddle of clichés – O, to regard those lovely eyes
for hours upon hours, and to be the cause of a smirk
of amusement creeping across that charming face! The girl
who would make his life complete, the girl with the Fair Trade coffee and yellow Schwinn.
Nothing more than a fairy tale, really, a story
he told himself when he realized he’d never tenderly hold those exquisite little hands.
A year or so later they ran into each other – she was holding hands with another man,
a man she introduced to him as Tom, Tom with piercing, discerning eyes,
Tom who wore black turtlenecks and black rimmed glasses and didn’t even know the story
of a mythical million-eyed beast in love with a human girl’s smirk.
She didn’t seem to share that smile as much with this Tom fellow, and that pretty little Schwinn
was nowhere in sight, replaced by a beige Prius. Surely, the beast would always love the girl,
but now no longer yearned to grasp her hands. He missed that smirk,
the sparkle in her eyes reserved for him after fixing the chain on a yellow Schwinn
and telling the story of a million-eyed beast too shortsighted to see he’d lost the girl.
The boy had a sheepish manner and carpenter’s hands,
and the girl listened to baroque pop while riding her vintage yellow Schwinn.
He gazed at her with sleepy blue eyes,
which she returned with a playful smirk.
This is a story of boy meets girl – but that doesn’t make it a love story.
“I’ve found that happy endings kind of ruin a story
for me,” remarked the girl
with a coy cynicism, cradling a coffee cup in tiny hands.
It was raining, droplets of water collecting on her yellow Schwinn.
She challenged him to challenge this statement, a playful glint in her eyes.
He granted her only a smirk.
In late September of that year, the chain fell off her yellow Schwinn.
He offered to repair it, entertaining her while he did with a story
of a mythical beast with a million eyes, eyes
that saw past, present, and future, and of the girl
he fell in love with, a girl with perfect and delicate hands
which the beast greatly admired, for he had only claws and a snarl where she had a smirk.
She asked if this story had a happy ending with a mischievous smirk.
“It’s a beast in love with a girl, what you do think?” he asked, testing the pedals on her Schwinn.
“Not everything can be Disney-fied. She’s no Belle.” He wiped the bicycle grease off his hands.
She said it was a good story, in that case. “You owe me a story
of your own now, y’know.” He wondered if she knew he was the beast and she was the girl –
except he saw a very limited view of the present with two – not a million – eyes.
She managed to reduce him to a puddle of clichés – O, to regard those lovely eyes
for hours upon hours, and to be the cause of a smirk
of amusement creeping across that charming face! The girl
who would make his life complete, the girl with the Fair Trade coffee and yellow Schwinn.
Nothing more than a fairy tale, really, a story
he told himself when he realized he’d never tenderly hold those exquisite little hands.
A year or so later they ran into each other – she was holding hands with another man,
a man she introduced to him as Tom, Tom with piercing, discerning eyes,
Tom who wore black turtlenecks and black rimmed glasses and didn’t even know the story
of a mythical million-eyed beast in love with a human girl’s smirk.
She didn’t seem to share that smile as much with this Tom fellow, and that pretty little Schwinn
was nowhere in sight, replaced by a beige Prius. Surely, the beast would always love the girl,
but now no longer yearned to grasp her hands. He missed that smirk,
the sparkle in her eyes reserved for him after fixing the chain on a yellow Schwinn
and telling the story of a million-eyed beast too shortsighted to see he’d lost the girl.
11.03.2009
Flash Fiction: Talk
“I’m sorry, the number you have reached is not available. Please try again.”
She was ready to throw this damn phone against the wall. Calling at least twice a day, every day, and to no avail. She couldn’t get through to her brother, apparently, no matter how many times she tried. She knew he was out there somewhere – she sent him pictures and letters and poems, and he sent her postcards back. They always had this number on them, but the number was always unavailable.
The postcards were pretty much a variation on the same message: Love you. Miss you. Great to hear from you. I care about you. And she knew he did – but she wanted to talk to him, to at least have the reassurance of hearing his voice.
Her parents didn’t know it, but she was going to take a year off after she graduated high school to look for him, wherever he had disappeared to. She’d been saving for a backpacking trip across Europe with her friends, but that was less important now.
She sent him a Polaroid of a lightning storm that had happened a few weeks ago. Written beneath: Let’s talk. Her number.
She’d keep taking pictures, keep writing poems and letters – they were always forwarded to the right place and he always wrote back. But maybe it was time to stop trying so hard to find him and let him find her, as hard as that might be.
She was ready to throw this damn phone against the wall. Calling at least twice a day, every day, and to no avail. She couldn’t get through to her brother, apparently, no matter how many times she tried. She knew he was out there somewhere – she sent him pictures and letters and poems, and he sent her postcards back. They always had this number on them, but the number was always unavailable.
The postcards were pretty much a variation on the same message: Love you. Miss you. Great to hear from you. I care about you. And she knew he did – but she wanted to talk to him, to at least have the reassurance of hearing his voice.
Her parents didn’t know it, but she was going to take a year off after she graduated high school to look for him, wherever he had disappeared to. She’d been saving for a backpacking trip across Europe with her friends, but that was less important now.
She sent him a Polaroid of a lightning storm that had happened a few weeks ago. Written beneath: Let’s talk. Her number.
She’d keep taking pictures, keep writing poems and letters – they were always forwarded to the right place and he always wrote back. But maybe it was time to stop trying so hard to find him and let him find her, as hard as that might be.
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