Right in time with the steamed slosh
of downward streaming
coffee, your real mind seems to
come pouring
forth—chuckling, at first, as wordless
as the rising
stuff—which babbles and sighs and
tickles, licking-
up against the glazed walls of it's container,
a subtly amplifying
bell, a vessel
of glazed lavender Michigan clay—but then,
gradually blooming, wedding, fucking, plugging
into all sorts
of weird, lubricated words—phrases or
clips of sensations
such as these right here (anything goes
now, you realize)—as you
lift the heavy, hot cup to your lips, hoping
to capture, or
to fish—as
with a crude but clever sieve
out of that dark, hot water into which
pure images
seems to have been
lovingly and painlessly birthed—all the things
that make this very moment feel crucial
enough to remember,
all the things that make you feel
like you're here,
and that it's now, and that
that's somehow
quite important enough. You—your mind,
this story,
are all so integral. And ritualistically stamping
the mug
on the wood table beneath you, you then come to see
a rippling reflection,
a soft and holy apparition of a thing waving
in the slow to stabilize surface
tension of the cup.
Like that last sip
was the first moment
of your material existence. So you're here
now. That's all. Get to work. Still, no hurry,
though. You know.
You—
are wise and slow. You know the words
of a new story will flow. Already good,
already classic,
already so
ancient—to begin with.
