Tuesday, May 10, 2016


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.

are wise and slow. You know the words

of a new story will flow. Already good,
already classic,

already so
ancient—to begin with.