These coffee grounds congeal. I scry
the muddy fortunes as the burnt bitter liquid recedes.
You’ll need a lot of gratitude, girl.
So much gratitude
Setting the ceramic ball down so the edges of that
scrying soup bore into the last gulps – gratitude
is healthy, they say. It’s that bit of sugar that soaks
into our cups. So we crave that crystaline-infused stuff in
a morning where so much is due. An antiseptic radiation from the window
bakes my head and shoulders, yet the coffee is cold now - gross.
So get out your shine box already. Click Click as your eyes flick, bookmarking thoughts with a dull inabsorbent thud. This pantomime yields little more than those dregs you deny. Saccharine spoonfuls wont save me here - where would they cling?
No viral impregnating pores to radiate a buoyant sweetness, a voice echoing up from a well dug last year reminds me I left my shovel down there, certain there would be no more digging. Nope. This is my sweetwater.
So much depends upon this ephemeral idea. I’m on a dais, accepting yellow roses and calla lilies, gracious little murmurs running down my chin. My gratitude journal records a scene out of “Carrie” but not blood, not blood but Namaste wellness whitening toothpaste. Karen wants to see her own goddamned manager about this farce.
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