The Process

It’s Hyperactive Bean Water; Shut up about It

The coffee is never strong
enough.  The first cup is proper,
though, with its milk ratio and all.  That
I can expect.  The second cup is diluted,
and I can expect that, being uncertain about using
more milk.  I boil the water
in a pot and then pour it into the French press.
Depending on your grace with it, bystanders may
think that’s a craft method.  It’s about as
craft as a bucket drum.  We make do.  Absolute
value of the beat or flavor is the final score, anyway.  My
friend said, “you need a kettle.”  I laughed, like
who am I, Neil Peart?  Coffee’s cold now, anyway.
Maybe just drink the damn thing and shut
up about it.  One thing’s for sure: the Louise
Gluck anthology is not a coaster.  Well
fuck me, am I supposed to get a table or
something?  Who am I, Martha Stewart?  Just a kid
trying to have some coffee.  The line between
expectation and entitlement is too delicate; most
of us haven’t done any worse than consider the words
more or better, anyway.  Really, really…just shut up
and drink it.

Domo Arigato (Turkey Roboto)

Throwback Sunday to last year's Thanksgiving napkins.  Classic play on Mr. Roboto/"Thank you very much."  You know...classic.

Throwback Sunday to last year’s Thanksgiving napkins. Classic play on Mr. Roboto/”Thank you very much.” You know…classic.

Backdoor Poems

These backdoor poems.  Backdoor
poems aren’t beautiful, I’ll tell you
that.  Id frequencies like admitting you
like it.  Didn’t say admitting you
adore it | assonance | alliteration is
for liars, mostly, unless we are lucky or very careful.  Truth in
these backdoor poems.  Dirty to
taboo, so don’t like them or
do or they’re too big | Floundering museless | it’s
teetering on freedom or
lostness.  “If I am not here, then no one is there.”  If
puzzles didn’t exist but there was one piece.  Total
irrelevance, really.  Backdoor poems inform the
omnipresence of solitude, such as if no me, then
them?  If no them, then skin?  And then if a mind
were skinless, where does gravity or
this claim establishment.  Simple solution: The Village,
that movie which could be applied to all layers.  The
easiest is this.  The most difficult is skinless mind
lost in space.   One argument is feces, the
anti-question, mortality, etc.  But that’s backdoor poems,
calling it.  You would never say you liked them.  Only
they scratch an itch or
they’re comfortable after you accept.  Darndest things.
I had said, ‘don’t make me laugh.  I’m trying to make this
tampon last.’  The others blushed.