Oil – Inspired by Thirty-Two Ounces of Black Coffee and a Leaky Mug

Still, as sturdy as its top is fixed,

It drips



Dabbles its potency from her chin,

Dribbles down her wrist,

Runs a lap around her ring finger,

Ellipses her elbow;

And escapes.

It imprints its dyes as it dies, aroma eroding the fit about her fist

Her grip

Her grasp


Asinine acrobat flipping threes from the trapeze hanging

from the branches on the trees

Of her brain cells,

Boding farewell to the falsely fortuitous

Slumber she spent

Studying the effects of voluntary insomnia on her speech patterns,

Pitter-pat passing time with eyelid palpitations,

Halfway from passing Peter Pan on his way to NeverLand

And staring swords into the atoms in front of her eyes;

Metabolizing the light,

The mist of what she dare not miss into a Spielberg of the night.

The fog diffused through her bronchial tubes is exhaled as ashes

Weathered words

That feather to her feet and filter through the


In the morning, steeped with the bags under her eyes and

The water that evaporated from her open mouth as she tried to breathe

In everything she thirsted for

That instead dried and made her bitter; parched

Like a coffee stain on a fresh-pressed, crisp, white shirt;

Coagulating over her dark cloud thoughts and raining down

In the sheets that swathe her in blankets from her

Brain… storms.

They keep her warm

So when she wakes,

Her daze becomes the days spectacles,

A spectacle of the warm rose that arose within her

As she watered herself, quenched her own thirst, drank herself in;

Became the morning star and the new-moon sky.

She drops her eyes to a woman’s reflection in the puddle she stands over, the liquid slipping from her mug

cool on that particular, epidermal plane

And the oils shift, painting over her skin.

The woman within the reflection reaches toward the life-giving light in the sky…

And smiles.


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