pot

Annoying buzzing jolts me,

And I am acquainted with the cold.

Light scratches at my eyelids

like a cat at her twine-wrapped pole.

The last vestige of

un-reality is sloughed

unceremoniously away

as I, with great reluctance,

remove myself from

this warm cocoon.

There’s like, a fog or something

and its blurring my vision.

Funny enough, I can see through it

but it refracts the light,

and decreases my confidence in standing.

The big block of wood in my skull

absorbs vibrations

and deadening the sounds of the

outside world,

amplifies the breaths

whose depth decrease as well

My feet?

Concrete. I’m still standing still,

I can’t move my legs

for fear of falling over.

Time is gelatin,

viscous and slow moving

and it’s hard to stand

in one spot

without suffocating.

But I can smell something,

energy incarnate bubbling

filling the room with

an ancient callsign.

The sharp odor cuts

the air, unsmothering me

momentarily.

Cultivated, roasted,

ground up and brewed.

I am awakened by the thought

as I grab the pot

pouring out the day in my mug.

Fog fades, feet freed

and feeling lighter,

my head’s still filled with cotton

but that folg-horn blows all the

cobwebs out in one fell sip.

I swear I just saw dust come out of my ears.