Ryan Stark

It is safe to assume that most people
reading this

won’t personally know
an upstanding Gentleman named Ryan Stark,

who was raised in the Old Southwest of Reno, Nevada
and who currently resides in Oakland, California

where he owns and manages a coffee shop called

The Black Spring Coffee Co.

But despite this
I believe

if you stick with me

to the end

you will probably have
a fair idea
of who Mr. Stark is

and what he is all about.

The thing is

I like coffee shops.

Chains,

Independent.

Doesn’t matter.

I enjoy the vibe.

It helps me concentrate.

But I can only abide them during a

brief window of time;

Just after they’ve opened

to just before the morning rush.

I sit here, so happy,
despite the fact that

in just a couple short hours

The pastry display will look like Normandy Beach

with a ripped in half
Red Berry Cheesecake Danish

left bleeding out in the arms of some
crumbled Blueberry Scone

and all those luscious BMT Chicken Salad Sandwiches 

will be snatched up,

leaving their far less desirable Turkey Havarti counterparts

to face this miserable world all alone.

And the napkin dispenser will be empty

And the trash will overflow

And the infants will scream

And the crazy homeless dudes will need corralling

And this silent air will be shattered
by the barking

of some bitchy dude,

Or some dudey bitch,

in a slick business suit

Who has to take a single precious second away

from his or her

totally-more-important-than-you-could-possibly-comprehend

Bluetooth conference convo
in Japanese, no less,

to yell at this poor barista chick because

“THIS IS NOT SKIM!

I SPECIFICALLY ASKED
FOR SKIM
AND THIS IS 1%.

O, YOU BET I CAN TELL THE DIFFERENCE.

"THIS SHIT HAS FAT IN IT
OR MY NAME ISN’T
DICK-FACE FUCK-MOUNTAIN THE THIRD!

MAKE IT AGAIN, PEASANT!”

And then the barista will say,

“Gee, dude, I don’t know, man.

Maybe we boned up your order,

maybe we didn’t . . . 

but either way,
I feel like you might be

over-reacting just a smidge.

"Because if you being

five minutes late to work today

is really going to effect your life
that much,

"then maybe you shouldn’t have

stopped in here to get a coffee

in the first place,

"And maybe

just a little bit of this 

stress
you’re experiencing right now

is, like, I don’t know, maybe
just a little bit

Your Fault.

"Perhaps I’m just like 

a tiny insignificant integer

In the gigantic, unwieldy,

un-prove-able 

cluster fuck of a math problem 

that your life is turning out to be,

"The same way that Welfare

for instances

is only a tiny fraction of one per cent

of the United States Federal Budget,

right?

"And maybe this whole entitled,

self-destructive, narcissistic thing you’ve got going on

is like,

the true culprit here . . .

not me.

"Because,
I'm just some chick 

who makes coffee.

“And dude:
AMBER ALERT:

COFFEE IS SUPPOSED TO BE
A NICE THING! 

Right?

“Just a nice thing.

Not the end all.

Not the be all.

Just a good thing.

“A thing that brings comfort

'Joy' is even too strong a word.

It's a friendly chemical nudge

that eases you towards all the shit

you just gotta get done today.

“And I get that you’re important

and I bet you’re even a tolerable,

hell, even likeable

when you’re not being a
total fucking cataclysm

"But you gotta understand, man,

I got tons of other people just like you
every minute of every day,

and they're all having their own personal meltdowns

"Over nothing but,
let’s face it,

over priced,
heated up,
bitter water.

“And I’m like an artist,

or something,

and I only took this job because
I thought it was kinda romantic

or something

"And as stupid as it probably sounds to someone like you,

I just want to use my dumb art

to share all the beauty I see

in the world,
Like,
with the world

And right now,

You are killing that for me.

“Because I want to like you, dude,

I really do!

But for real,

You make me feel nothing but contempt and disgust

for everyone on earth.

"And sometimes

I just want to set this whole goddamn place on fire

And watch you

And all these innocent little squealing babies

And that poor old homeless crazy veteran fuck

And all the rest them

just burn the fuck alive

"because you just treated me

like garbage

when I just gave you 

my best.”

Thankfully,

for me at least,

None of this has happened
yet.

The hour is still early.

The sun has barely begun pulling

itself out of the mighty Atlantic.

It is calm.

It is serene.

The pastry display is immaculate.

The sandwich cooler looks like the White House 

after a fresh coat of paint.

The napkin dispensers, the straw cups, and the coffee sleeve holders are all

Locked, Cocked, and Ready 2 Rock.

Each stone-faced piece of 

metal and plastic and paper and compost 

looks completely undaunted

by the impossible task

that lie ahead.

Besides myself,

there is only one other customer

in the coffee shop.

He is a regular looking guy

of average height and middle age.

Dressed plainly,

he does not stand out

to me

or anyone else.

I watch the man order

a medium cup of coffee.

He pays for his drink,

tosses a buck into the tip jar,

then continues on to the milk and sugar table.

He pours himself a moderate amount of cream

along with a single serving of Sugar In The Raw,

and then proceeds to give his brew

a slow, methodical stir.

No rush.

Nowhere he needs to be.

Just taking a moment to make sure 

that his coffee

turns out

just how he likes it.

He has shown up early

after all

For this express reason.

Then he drops the stirrer and

the sugar packet

straight into the bottom 

of the empty waste-basket.

And that's when this man,

this stranger

does something

that I find 

So beautiful

So inspiring

that I am forced to forget 

all my plans I had for the morning
to write this instead.

Because it is at this moment when

this Gentleman before me

swipes a single napkin out of the dispenser

Perfectly

in one crisp motion

like a Marine saluting a Five Star General.

He leaves no millimeter of napkin

still inside the dispenser

and doesn't draw the next napkin out

leaving it to an undignified end

where it would have been left to languish

devoid of purpose on the counter.

He uses his single napkin
to mop up not only whatever slight mess
he might have made,

But he also wipes down

the greater Napkin, Sugar Packet, and
Milk Holder Region.

He leaves the entire area looking as
flawless

as it was when the store
first opened.

It’s a simple, modest gesture

But it tells me
a great deal.

It tells me that there are still a few people

Rare people

A criminally minuscule percentage of people

Who know the score,

They recognize the circus,

They can smell the animals,

They know that despite all our best intentions

And our utmost due diligence

This Crazy Train we're all riding
is leading us straight to the heart of Pandemonium,

The State Capital of Hell itself

No matter what.

Can't stop it.

Can't change it.

But they won't participate in it.

They won't retreat from it.

They’ll fight against it

knowing they don’t stand a chance.

Accepting certain defeat

Before they even begin.

And it reminds me

of the first man

besides my father 

that I ever really admired,

The first Stoic, 

Steadfast

True Blue
Rock&Roll
Righteous Dude

I ever did have
the distinct pleasure
of knowing.

And I think of Ryan Stark

who was raised in the Old Southwest of Reno, Nevada.

And I smile.

XXX

Fat Shaming

It's great,
really GREAT
that you love yourself.

Fuck Yeah!

But

No amount
of self-esteem
can unclog
your arteries

No amount
of confidence
can stem the flood
of cancer cells
from ravaging your organs

And no amount
of swagger
can sidestep
that .45 caliber stroke
you've got whizzing
through your brain.

So good on you.

You've redefined the parameters of "beauty"
to the point where it also includes
all the vices that will lead to
your untimely demise.

Mission The Fuck Accomplished!

But the truth
the cold hard math of it

Is that you
are fat
and lazy
and going to die
far too early

And this is all
Your fault.

You can blame society.
Blame advertisers.
Blame photoshop
for making the food look so
Good
and a healthy body look so
Impossible.

You can defend yourself
all you want.
Deep down
You know it's true.

Excuses
wrapped in an education
are still nothing
but excuses.

But no one calls you fat.
No one calls you lazy.
No one calls you out.

You've got the whole world
pretending
that will-power
does not exist

Because

no one wants to
hurt your feelings
while they watch you
kill yourself.

The Woman I Married

You are not the woman I fell in love with.

You are not the woman I married.

You are not.

The woman I fell in love with had perfect tits

and an ass most fly,

but she concealed these gifts in

plain sight so well

that even she no longer believed

that they were real.

The woman I fell in love with offered

apologies to everyone for everything

as though it were an essential phase

of a peculiar brand of cellular respiration

for organisms such as her

that have a biological need to constantly express regret

for taking up any space at all.

You are

not that woman.

Not

anymore.

The woman I married

was a master of disguise.

She snuck from milestone to milestone,

creeping between each grand accomplishment and dignified honor

as though at any moment the sirens might blare

and a SWAT team might descend

to take her away

and the worldwide news outlets would all report

how this little girl of negligible talent

and marginal intellect had ever

managed to defraud so many people

so many times.

The woman I married held her opinions

tight to her chest

vetting each of her words carefully

running background checks and

compiling a thorough dossier

before granting

them access to her tongue

for fear

that the air might fill with imaginary insults

the second after she left the room

and all the smiling faces that

she called friends would agree,

Oh my Gawd. What a bitch!

You are not the woman

I fell in love with

and married.

You are a shape-shifter.

Every morning it seems

the passage of night transforms you into

Someone stronger

Someone braver

Someone more self-assured

with more confidence

who commands more respect.

Listening to you calling out hippies

for all the ridiculous shit they believe

or extolling to your prudish friends in completely

unapologetic detail the many virtues of S&M and anal sex

without the slightest bit of fear or shame

is like music to my ears.

You are a song whose sweet melody

takes years

to begin to hum along to

And while you are not 
the woman I married

I love you and

I admire you

now more than ever

And judging by the trajectory of all 
the things I can measure

I will love you more tomorrow than I do today

And next year.

And next decade.

And next century.

And if I had a billion lifetimes

I wouldn’t waste one of them

without you.

A Small Dark Place

You are a fifteen-year-old girl.

You are standing in a closet

with a sixteen-year-old boy

who is beautiful and perfect in every way

Unlike you.

It’s dark

and you’re glad it’s dark

because you won’t have to see

how handsome he is and he won’t

have to look at how ugly you are.

And he’s only in here with you on a dare anyway.

And it’s now minute four of your fabled

Seven Minutes in Heaven

and so far Heaven seems like a pretty big misnomer

because neither of you have done anything
yet
except share each other's oxygen.

But you are so close and the heat

from his body is so warm

it makes your knees tremble beneath

the shortest skirt that you’re

allowed to wear outside.

Then, as if cued by some silent alarm

some tiny explosion of hormones
a billion years in the making

the most perfect beautiful boy in God’s sweet earth

reaches out and touches you ever so gently

on your stomach

And without a thought

you instinctively reach out

and touch

his chest

and you’re almost surprised to find

that he is just as real as you.

And he leans forward.

And you kiss.

But this isn’t just your first kiss

--this is The Kiss--

The kiss by which you will measure all other kisses,

for as his lips meet yours and your tongue

slips heroically into his mouth

synapses all across your brain are firing off artillery

blazing a new path through the backcountry of your brain

Like an elusive flawless game of Oregon Trail where

Everybody lives

and John didn’t break his leg at all

and Becky doesn’t have dysentery at all

and the ford across the river always holds true.

And the plethora of sensory data gets compiled and

categorized and filed under a folder in your memory labeled 

THIS IS WHAT A FUCKING KISS IS, GIRLFRIEND!

And from now until the day you die

Every kiss that lands on your lips

from lovers both

GREAT and forgettable

will stroll down the same path 

that was carved out by this moment

with this perfect boy

in this small dark place

and all of your friends

murmuring

on the other side of this closet door.

You feel his hand slip

from your stomach to your

left thigh

then up up up up up up up

He does it slowly

to give you ample time to stop him

to say No.

But

You

Don’t

Want him

To stop.

And "Yes"

floats out of your mouth

almost 

on its own.

And you feel his fingers caressing

your sex before he

actually gets there and

the burning in your tummy

verges on torture

And it swells

And it aches.

And you hate it.

Then he slides his hand under your skirt and

over your sopping cotton underwear

and for the first time in your whole stupid life

you completely forget to be embarrassed by your body.

And you forget to be scared.

And time and fear and shame

have become as irrelevant to you as

The Naval War of 1812.

He has barely touched you

when you start to come.

You are coming and now and

you know why they call it coming,

Because you have arrived, Young Lady.

For the very first time your

body and your mind have aligned
to occupy the same space at the same time

without you riding on a flux capacitor to

next week’s chemistry midterm or 

last month’s birthday party.

And a rush of reward chemicals that have

evolved perfectly

over millions of years to

promote procreation

flood your brain.

And you submit

to the same biological obligation that

tethers you to the earth along

with every other living thing from

cheetahs to cockroaches.

And it’s so dazzling and repulsive,

so gorgeous and obscene,

that you start crying immediately,

drunk on the discovery of your own potent sexual power

The Girl

who can make it rain just by wetting her lips.

The Girl

whose expanding iris can summon a tidal wave.

The Girl

whose blushing cheeks could melt the polar ice caps.

And just as the last ribbon of your childhood

Snaps

Slips

And twirls to the floor

The closet door flings open

And your tiny, most private of moments

Is flooded with light and

the shrieking catcalls of everyone

you’ve known

since grade-school.

And they saw everything.

And they know nothing.

And they will call you a slut

and a skank

and a whore

to punish you

for that moment

when you forgot 

to be afraid and ashamed

like them.

And the perfect

most beautiful boy on Earth

will prove himself

desperately flawed

and ugly
and common

and that will kill you.

And it will be decades

before you can put all this

in the right place.

When your breasts hang like boxing gloves.
When your thighs no longer quiver at a stranger’s touch.

When you can talk all night about his cock

and your cunt

without the slightest bit of blood redirecting to your cheeks.

And a kiss

Will be

Just a kiss.

And you will think back
to this moment

And your heart will
soar.

And your heart will
sink.

About Pussies

It is completely absurd that

people use the word “pussy”

As a symbol for weakness

and cowardice.

A woman’s pussy is tougher

And more gallant

Than any man who has ever lived.

Our entire species

depends

on pussies dilating

--often ripping--

in order to usher in the next generation

of human beings.

You could lay a path

from the Earth to the Moon

and back again

a hundred times over

using only the vaginal tears

of the unimaginably resilient

and courageous women

who have faced this horror,

but still,
we have the nerve

--the sheer fucking audacity--

to refer to pussies

as symbols for the
weak and cowardly.

Meanwhile,

we use “balls” as a symbol

of strength and courage

when they are actually the most

sensitive and

vulnerable real-estate in

the observable universe.

It’s just

unconscionable.