afternoon in a Chinese coffeehouse

i let my americano go lukewarm
before I decide to begin sipping
because I am still in denial
i don’t really like coffee that much
bitterness is supposed to bring our senses to life
so struggle to enjoy it, smile cause its hip
i love it most when accompanied by sweets too strong for my teeth
only then does it remind me of the old, dirty alleys I once roamed
i wish they came with little shortbread cookies
like they did in glamourous hong kong
or chocolate, like in utopian europe
or so i’ve heard

the man sitting behind me is starting to snore

Chinese wines taste like rotten, watered down, grape juice
new wines try to make up for their insecurities with fiercer bites
older ones are shown off for sport
consumed with jealousy
cabernet saugvon goes well with stir-fried black fungus, bamboo shoots
or maybe its shirazz, or one of those other mixes
the chardonnay i left in the bottle for a week is giving up on life
i know nothing about wines, and they nothing about me
i pretend they are dangerously moody teas mixed with flowers and fruit
so they make me pay when i don’t eat enough
lighting my head and arms on fire
keeping me from sleep

i hear the other man’s lighter clicking followed by dry, lonely odors

i’m still drinking old green teas
dragons stuck at the bottom of the well
looking up with nostalgic tears, slithering in circles
wild leaves from the yellow mountains
picked a little under a year ago on a misty morning
packaged along the long river in a nervous storefront
handed to me by China’s new modern sages
seeking to enlighten a jaded, selfish youth
he is waiting for the spring shipments near tomb sweeping day
the subtle rush of bitter grasses or fresh peeled nuts
followed by the sweetness of melons
as am i, as Am I

the espresso machine is churning, bubbling, sputtering, throwing up, and then quiet