The Café Stix

How can I make this coffee sweeter,
when there is no sugar and only sour milk;
how should I presume to judge myself,
as I sit at “The Café Stix”?
When I have my drink before me,
and I look across the street to see a woman walking,
shall I turn to face the sea?
Would the waves give way to memories,
or let free a troubled mind,
to pretend it did not see the child in her arms?
Could my eyes forget the unknown shimmer,
that shined upon her slender hand, or do they still see horrors,
from the darker days they’ve had?

Should I take you back with me,
to a house I used to know, and now deserted seats,
now dull and draped with dust?

Follow me through crowded, snowy city streets,
and we’ll taste again those ginger snaps and rum,
-and we’ll see my fate undone. Come.

First to silent, haunting whispers,
and kisses on that shameful chamber bed;
silk sheets, torn free from their corners,
as two figures hold, embraced in bed.
Look upon that horrid glace,
that blank disgust by that open door and eyes of glass that gasp,
and gasp,
and gasp...
How slow those moments passed.

And the years have passed; they are not kind;
they sing to me of “if’s” and “why’s”.

How can I drink my coffee,
when I first have not had wine;
when the waiter in black comes again,
I’ll ask him for the time.
I’ll pay him for his work and stress a smile.





-In my mind,
Shall I call for Prufrock,
and hunt those mermaids down,
or kill that Great White Whale,
dancing seaward like a cloud?
I’d often think of memories,
but I do not wish to cry.

I will not die again,
this coffee will be fine.

And still the taste is bitter,
it does not age as wine;
I will not cry. I will not cry.
I am a man, I will not cry.

Shall I deny the deeds I’ve done?
Deny the child that should be mine?
It was done.

And with all my wealth,
and all my pride, when I am gone
drinking my coffee after work, watching this perfect woman,
this familiar stranger with a child crossing a city street in an ocean town,
with her hair flowing and subtle, extravagant red lips,
the lights are turned off at my apartment,
and the bed is neatly made.
[A simple bed; expensive but simple,
I do not wish any grander;
I do not wish the lights on,
if and when I come home.
I only wish my coffee sweeter,
that is enough for me.]

She crosses the street, and disappears,
like the murmur of a day,
and I cannot help but whisper,
of how cold it seems to be.





Dare I follow after-
and risk being turned away-
in the distance I hear chatter,
as light flickers indiscretely.

I’ve held the sickle to her throat,
but never held it to my own;
I’ve seen Medusa’s face of death,
but never felt more like a stone or dead.

Should Hades greet me, what would I say?
Could I move? Could I breathe?
Or would I stay for another drink?
Would I straighten out my tie,
smile and walk away?
Or would I then,
after reflecting with her on the years of implications and innuendos,
and that one line - that meticulously constructed poisoned arrow -
like Rome to Ancient Greece -
that “I don’t love you anymore” to end it all,
that sent me here to start with-
would I change?

Oh Achilles, be my only friend,
I’ve been running up this mountain,
just to fall again-
I’ve been starring at the ocean,
for so long my hair is thin.

and my coffee is so bitter,
I cannot bear to sip.

I have floated on human bones,
across a sea of death,
and now I die myself…
with every passing breath

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry