Fred Aiken Writing

Black coffee tastes bitter until you bite into it, 

and then the bitterness overcomes you,

and then it seems like that’s all you’ll ever know,

until the scent of lemongrass with citrus notes

floods through the murky water,

black,

bitter as could be,

with a thousand little beans chasing

yet with hints of jasmine and grapefruit,

roasted until it cracked to the heat

scorching its skin from existence

the caffeinated high from a sludge,

barely noticeable,

black,

still bitter,

jittery, pop, pop,

skin begins to move with tense lines

forming to the contours of the high 

created by the black coffee sipping,

hot, 

through a mist that settles fast,

then zips through a continuous string

of mildly entertaining thoughts

that seem profound,

fight,

fight the tiredness,

beat the overwhelming urge,

to sleep,

and not wake up,

to sleep, 

and not wake up