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Coffee Shop Diary: Poems about Fruits

9 Apr

There’s a man in the coffee shop. He is talking to the cute waitress who I think hates me. She appears to hate me so much that I think she must be gay. But I guess not. He is asking if she ever reads books. Oh no, she laughs. Hahaha, I wish I could, I just never have the time. She works in a coffee shop that serves about eight customers a day and is also a bookstore.

He walks back to the shelf and comes back with a book, white cover black letters like those six packs in Maine that just say “beer,” and the cover says “Oranges Tangerines Bananas” or something. He hands it to her. It is his book; he wrote it. Oh, she says, I will have to check this out. He has a black leather jacket and a tattoo of a kite.

You motherfucker with your poems about fruits. If I had one more hustler gene I’d rule the world.

Coffee Shop Diary: Not a Vegan

15 Mar

 If she were interested in fucking me she would have asked how the mac and cheese was.

I thought I had an opening. I had asked about the macaroni and cheese. I actually don’t know how it is, she said. I don’t eat cheese.


I’m not vegan.

An in. I like that you threw that in there, as though I were gonna judge you. “As though,” I said, not “as if.”  I wanted her to know that if I were to ejaculate in her our offspring would use conjunctions correctly.  I’ll tell you if it’s any good.  That way you can present an informed opinion from now on.  Keep the eye contact.  She bites her lip; I am in.  I will dig out this coffee shop waitress’ musky snatch after one of her stupid band’s shows.  She’s a drummer, I gather, from her not being able to shut the fuck up about it to everybody.

Later she walks by and I’m eating it and she doesn’t ask how it is.  She remembers nothing of my perfect off the cuff banter.  All your charm is written in water.  On the wind.  By a unicorn that is only in your imagination.  Women don’t remember you.  They only remember famous people. 

I need to get some notoriety from this shit.  Plus I need my words and ideas to change lives for the bett– no, I just need some fucking pussy.  I need the pussy EZ-Pass; actually talking to these girls is too damn hard.

Coffee Shop Diary: The Shitter

13 Mar

I have to piss.  You are never going to be able to piss in this coffee shop. The rest room key has not once been on its appointed hook.  Other people ask about it, but you know the score. “Someone must be in there.”  Someone must be in there taking the longest shit in human history. They have one of those diseases where the organs liquefy and they are shitting them out one inch at a time.  Someone won’t leave the bowl till his asshole’s dry and he’s reading Infinite Jest taking care to study the footnotes within footnotes. Someone is building a supercomputer out of his own shit, or a life sized statue of Napoleon.  No one, no human being, could ever, for any legitimate reason, stay in a coffee shop bathroom that long.  What kind of person shits in a coffee shop. What kind of monster.  We’re all puttering around drinking hot liquids, we all have to piss, and you’re in there crafting a flock of origami swans out of C fold paper towels, you motherfucker.  And another guy just asked about it.  Now he gets to go in before me, if this shitter ever emerges.  Great.  No doubt he’s got a hot sauce burrito log to squeeze out too.  They are all shitting in coffee shops, these huns. Whatever happened to take a quick piss and you’re out.  Fuck anyone who even washes their hands.  Pussies.

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6 Mar

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Coffee Shop Diary: One Who Is To Be Loved

7 Feb

There is a woman talking about using a juice cleanse to cure bronchitis.  She is attractive, but I didn’t need to tell you that.  Ugly women know enough not to talk about a juice cleanse.  Not to talk about astrology.  Only a beautiful girl can go through 22 years of life talking about putting carrot juice in your ass to cure cancer, how the doctors all know the real score; all their fancy chemo drugs are just a scam to keep you sick and Big Pharma doesn’t want you to know the truth because freshly harvested organic carrots don’t make them any money. Only a beautiful girl can go through decades of saying shit like this without being told to shut the fuck up.  This girl, if you saw her– she hasn’t received so much as a cocked eyebrow over anything since she was twelve.  The schlub she’s talking to has such a stink of the unlaid about him that she could start denying the Holocaust and he would be like “wow… yeah.  Interesting.”  Now she’s talking about her best friend in Brooklyn, some art project this friend has going. My friend is like, Amanda, you need to come out and help with the publicity, but it would have been weird staying there.  Her name is Amanda.
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