Evokes disgust in some;

giggles in another.

The consequence of a spillt drink;

the prize of the cake.

The studs in the walls fear her;

the grass in the field waits

earnestly for the proof of

her quality.

A smooth surface she complicates for the feet;

the towel of her disposition

holds the bowl in place.

Weaponized against the barber;

life-giving for the Berber in

Gibraltar.

Her mouth-feel when spoken is

slippery and sensual;

perfect for reviving an aged conversation.

The furrowed brow of the captured spy

resents her tell;

her touch on the skin is proof of our living.

Moist, hated by the soldier in the Ardennes trench;

loved by him stationed in the Arabian days.

Coffee is just spicy bean juice.

Onions are just spicy apples.

Insulation is just risky cotton candy.

End of story.

The puppet-master sat upon the liar-seat

with a melody playing over the bugel,

a wake-up call to the clay vessel maiden,

to animate, define, conform, absolve.

The puppet-master played ivory over ebony keys,

ebony over ivory tones,

a divided mind with himself to receive

any harvests from the blonde-haired maiden.

Yet he sat upon the chair, with his eyes bleeding

tongueless fury and mouthless ire,

unable to reconcile with

the maiden's words.

He was the king,

and she the princess.

But he was the greybeard, bald-headed,

and she the fresh lilly in the courtyard.

He knew what she was to be,

and she knew too.

The ramparts burned with thermal radiance,

at the rejection of her telos.

She was an animation of leather teeth,

defined by a woolen coat,

conformed to the pasture,

absolved by her able-bodied leisure.

His kingdom was walls,

and her kingdom, fields.

#garden #kingdom

Some find the day’s start irksome,

but some the middle.

But I have found a moment worse;

my reason simple.

When 2 p.m. finds the clock,

the filters appear.

Not the kind that saves from breath

but keeps the drink clear.

In fact, the fumes are wretched,

like 1916.

Mustard seeds? Test the faith of

man attacked by beans.

The ire of my heart when I

inhale and I appose

myself by the odorous

stink filling my nose.

Or the spilling that occurs

when flimsy cups tip

onto my desktop papers.

Oh, why call it drip?

Why not call it stain or splash,

more accurate names?

Or maybe create better

cups so it’s contained?

And without it they’re cranky,

unproductive too.

Drowsy and defeated minds

with three hours ’til noon.

I despise this scheduled time,

my main complaint thus:

this beverage has a way of

making things erupt.

The bathroom line out the door

at half past the hour.

The air smells like cinnamon,

sweet pea, and some flowers.

Though I don’t participate

in those coffee breaks,

My body has its needs, bowels

don’t disciminate.

But when the line is over,

I entered and wept,

I needed toilet paper,

but there isn’t any left.

#coffeebreak #toiletpaper