I want a coffee.

I am out of coffee.

I must drive to the coffee shop to get coffee.

I am avoiding this action.

I think about getting coffee,

driving up Kanan,

sun and bright sky,

summer in California,

nothing more required

for happiness.

Yet I feel

inside my stomach

the refusal of joy


the onslaught of emptiness

that awaits me.

Fuck this poem.

What I am saying is this:

I want to go to the coffee shop

and want to enjoy going there,

but I know this is impossible.

I will be thinking the entire time

you’re happy

you’re fine

you’re happy

you’re fine

“What can I get for you?”

“A coffee. The biggest one you have. Do you like books?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Do you read?”


“Then find me someone who reads, too. Is that on the menu? Find me another human being on this planet that enjoys words and I will kiss your feet and bathe you in the milk of swans.”

“Swans don’t produce milk, sir.”

“Fuck you. Give me my coffee.”

Written at 12:57 in the afternoon, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA. Before driving to the coffee shop. 

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