Red berries, mixed with fat, in the hide pouches of pre-historic Indonesian warriors,
the martial grinding my father made while first sunlight embraced the stars of my childhood mornings, (blurring with that stale, energetic JPR anthem)
the swiped guard's coffee me and my jail-mates rejoicefully drank from a plastic bag,
black generously sharing with white amid easy swipes of skin,
all those university mochas that lent ambience to professors' hand sweeps, to pages of Confucius, to slides of Renaissance saints laggardly losing their halos and sprouting third dimensions,
the replenishing capuccinos my mom would leave me with an affectionate peck on the cheek
off to her mysterious medical world,
all the black, tropical cups I throat-speared through tattered, toxic hungover mornings.
Coffee, you mocha crutch of strolling human slugs!
You insidious cyborg blood tainted with coffeemate in sundry corporate offices where I bided spirit hungry times!
you towering, tawdry bush,
I should never have abandoned solid earth
to live in your quivering branches.
But, like General Washington,
I cannot tell a lie, (lol)
though I'll paint you an easy, milky hue
and strive to prune away the extra shots...
I haven't any will to cut you down.