The Gateway Gulp

This black elixir steaming between my hands
in mugs each morning raises the dead across the land.
In silvery dawns under painted skies
we rise
with shock and grit in our eyes.
With heavy strides we search
through an unreal fog
for a white button
with an orange light.
We wait for percolating
and the scintillating
scent, and earthy dripping.
We choose our kitchen cup,
and cream (if you take it)
and sugar (oh you don't?)
We wait for the thunking
of boiling air
and stare
daring
the dripping to stop.
That first pour.
That first inhale.
A sting-burning sip.
Alive.
Awake.
Aware.

Rhyming

Flick the lights
and close the door.
The cold sneaks in too fast.

Cook your meal
and watch TV
to laugh away the past.

Grind the green
and roll it up
when laughter fails to mend

the bleeding,
weeping, keening heart
beating now within.

Smoke can choke
the lingering
of a traumatic break

be it nose
or heart that's broke.
(Both actually in my case.)

Quick fixes
last until I pull
the sheet above my head.

In the dark,
the weeping starts.
No comfort waits in bed.

Suns first, then
moons, then seasons pass.
Repeat repeat repeat.

Cook and watch,
grind, smoke and sleep
and weep and weep and weep.

Broken now,
like a vinyl scratched,
I'm no longer good for play.

Awareness
of this lifeless life
brings me now to pray:

'Weeping heart
do your tears refresh
that troubled god within,

or do these tears
accumulate
to drown this troubled man?'