"Holden Caulfield’s great question"
A shrimp thinking about an apple.
A poem about Coffee
White foam and none.
The ocean air is thick and sweet as the sea kneads it’s waves that corrode the entirety of my rib cage.
It botches stale breaths to chant hallelujah, screaming mercy, yelling bliss.
The seaside is the perfect place for a cup of black coffee.
Incan bean roast on a petrified mountain.
My stomach is a dark brown lake.
The tides rise and fall with my consumption of a dark brown drink.
The moon follows my dark brown sky.
It’s a dark brown dye I preside.
I can say I’ve kissed a bean,
but only after I used it’s blood to think.
And I take my coffee naked.
Sometimes things are just better that way.
I indulge in book ink.
I could swim in book ink.
I could use book ink as an excuse to miss a date.
When I use book ink, I drink coffee.
I drink coffee and I use book ink.
I read you can do that once, I read you could do that in a book.
I read that just being tired isn’t enough these days, but coffee helps.
At least that’s what I wanna believe.
I think I just like the taste,
And what comes along with it.
It’s an alcohol.
Sky Whales by R.A.L. Dobbins