Fred Aiken Writing

coffee dropping from the drum smells

like grape jelly hitting wet cement while being poured over cat litter

from waves of mycotoxinic bliss frothing through the musk of decaf

flavored from beetles scrounging for any

last drop, drip, stop of caffeine molecules

being pulled out of pores of anaerobic maceration

left at the door. coffee salesperson. at risk. caffeine dealer to the youth

in foreign hostels drinking flavored mud juice from the teat of porcelain cups

broken out to test the water, gone sour by the minute

fleeting fledglings foresting out of robusta bushes

growing in regions south of the equator

north of the stars

found far and wide

yet concentrated into pockets of seeds

ripped from the shells

to burn, let it burn; exothermic entropy deliciously

smothering rate of rise to return on investment,

crash and burn at first crack until it spikes

to desired temperature, then rinse repeat dry feed drink mixture of the heavens

set to a setting meant to cause havoc,

let it burn, let it repeat, let it spin out on the highway and it bounces from the tips of the feet to the front of the lobe;

roasting in the cup the world over for one brief moment of relief