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What Did I Kill Back There?Who says a mind is different
Than its been or ever cared to be
When its high
Contorted like a paper clip
Bending oddities serving the utmost purpose
But its far from any familiar pain of order
Like a fractured rubber bone
Its only angst is in the let(come)down
Normalcy has long since
Whipped back to suffering
Please hold onto this amazement
Rubber stamp the ticket again
For the return trip
A mother waves
Goodbye to a bus
And a child inside
Snickers and chides at what
Mother doesnt know
As she goes home and irons uniforms
Little Timmys recesses speak of
Being drug enhanced and pompous
But the second pot of coffee is gone
Back at home and the pile
Is starched and folded
With arresting speedy prowess
Who the fuck can say theyre alive
When theyre so low
Thoughts hackneyed and commonplace
Alive! and bright!
As a possum scurrying about a gravel road
Right in the path of a truck
Full of stale and humdrum effects
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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