Percolator OdeAdam Deutsch
I know I’m rough while I sleep but first thing, don’t I always awaken to you? When can’t I see myself in any part of your bodily shine? Call me crazy. Call me addicted, a lack of grace in the dark kitchen where my hands are auto-mechanical in intention to take you apart and put you back together, fresh grind and the cleanest cold water, turn you on with no switch, just a plug and leave you for a few minutes to pout and simmer. A love, happy happy love handle curve I return to, tightly hold. Lift into a hot little dance. Wild pursuits and mad ecstatic escapes just for me, and nothing at all like some ancient Grecian counterpart. No moments are trapped, silently remaining etched on your skin. You’re constant reflection of the world that surrounds us now. Right Now, proof of our obligation to evolve, surrender all impression and memory, fully conscious and back- casting the light of our Being who engirds, total. You’re the urn I empty in morning, container I want to rest in. This is my last will: burn my entire body slowly slow to a crisp carbonic brick, tap my big charred toe so I’m crumbled into bits to be ground. Put me through the grinder. I’ll fit in your filter, saturate your half-full drink, asleep and stainlessly filtered within you. You: always here. Always morning.
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