black coffee and philosophy

My black coffee is warm, the sun is peeking.

It said 7:02. I don’t understand

how phones can answer most of my questions

except the philosophical ones of how you can

be one person with two eyes

and another with an eye in the middle. It seems

most men are like this, it’s not a surprise.

I learned it from young, but the hope keeps

rising like your hardness. I wished I never

saw you now. I wished I never knew you now.

I thought you were someone else, excuse me.

I thought you spoke my language, you never

did. You researched me, googled me, and

made my name too large in print. It’s just a

name. I’m no one special. You’re the radiohead

song.

I think I see you everywhere, but

the truth is, all these thoughts are pointless.

My coffee is still warm and my libido

is still alive. I’m baking lemon cakes

now, I’m wearing no underwear.

I’m mentally ill now, I’m going crazy.

Aren’t you happy for me? I may even

try to kill myself for you. Wouldn’t

you love to have a trophy of all

of us? Lined up and direct

in reality

telling you how we are all so crazy,

so nuts–

to for have fallen for you.

Nothing

In death

people don’t disappear

they brighten up and write poems

on the other side of the sky

wait for you to decipher

their lines.

They bury the flowers

you planted and eat your leftover soup

even if living with the dead was hard

their life in your hands

is as comparable

as empty hands and brick walls.