Sunday, March 6, 2011


Your mouth tastes bitter, and you wish you had a toothbrush, but it's in the other room. Too far.
The atmosphere is flooded with the scent of dark roast coffee.
There's brown stains on your shirt and the carpet.
You read to the rhythm of brewing.
The sound like someone is endlessly sucking the last drop of water from a cup with a straw.

Books are everywhere-
Papers and pens carpet your desk bed couch floor.
Thoughts are sailing on John Coltrane's saxophone,
And your eyes are heavy, but endlessly blinking to keep awake.
Blink to the rhythm of jazz.

But the bitter dark roast mud pumps your body with artificial energy
Like the speed of Coltrane's trumpet squared
And your eyes are glued open, but vacant like that of a corpse.
Your fingers are rapidly typing your thoughts
Until you're almost unaware of what you're typing, until you read it over and it sounds rational.
Maybe your mind is split, like a Schizophrenic, 'cause you're tired and vacant but on the other hand you're pumping and focused and unstoppable.

The sun is peeking over the mountains,
And as the vacant side of your mind begins to go into overdrive,
You whip out the rest of your thoughts
And as the sun yawns and stretches, you fall onto the paper piles and books and pens.

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