My personally brewed
pot; Columbian
coffee, beans ground
but a second before being
showered with cold
tap. It’s bleak, more
mystery than my
outlook; I sit n’ sip one eye
closed. Taste buds be
born again. Please,
a bland awareness is
still existence.
I asked from God
forgiveness,
the other day,
for some of the
wrongs so heavy with traffic
they charged a toll
on me.
My nose is immune to
scents—
like I’m eating black
plague jellied toasts
and all that returns
to Earth is more
plague, breadless.
Racing to the
porcelain altar,
my finish line,
flushed.
Sick, but I’m not
alone when I pray.
Illness for us all makes
us believers.
Perhaps Pharaoh never
learned how to swim—
Found petrified, a
sunken, pointing terd
preserved, submerged
by parting seas.
He submits, too
late, and the Truth
is truly, we all
ask for help when
we’re helpless.
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