by Jeff Southwick
Tea leaf, fragments swimming, in my cup, you cannot, just make this stuff up, but- perhaps using a better filter will- clear up, this problem with my extracted product.
Pondering, tealeaf fragments, in my cup, I fail to see, how these fragments could- bring harm to me, though- if this brew encountered, some electricity- could new life come to be? Tea leaf fragments, in my cup, talking to me, as once did a shell- washed up from the sea seemingly, an epiphany of transparency- for how did this mollusk, come to be- a resident of the sea, instead of someone- like me?
Tea and mollusk- though not certain, just assumed, to lack adequate sentient aptitude-so either one, or both together, should not be competent to thrust their questions, upon me, thus causing such disturbance of my countenance. My tea, as I ponder our perceived difference where did this spirit begin, in me was it in some distant common ancestry, shared not with you tea, but by the chimpanzee- and me?
So my tea, could we- then, also share some common, memory beyond, what these dry bones have to tell me- for what has not, already, been pondered by the professor, of philosophy- so much more wordy- than, any fragmentary leaves in, a cup of tea.
So- if my spirituality should exceed, that, of a cup of tea- expanding exponentially, as time goes by and, erupting up beyond the sky- then is that, what, compels me, to examine the nature of this travesty, and- ask these questions- why? Then, if my cup of tea determines, my capacity to conceive of some -infinity for prose- but, when our identity is surely, measured by our clothes, then- who really knows, how to comprehend what it is we are drinking, from this fire hose when, the fire in our belly- ever larger grows?
So my tea, we- seem to be fragments, one in the same, you and me, together –forever- throughout the galaxy, passing on through, eternity, as I drink to you, and- you assimilate me- as an endless loop, of conscience consistency.
My tea has cooled, and I have consumed, thoughts uncoupled- by a spoon, too soon- my muse has ceased to sing, so I bereft am left, pondering- in the bottom of my cup- a brown debris ring, with a feeling, of uncertainty.