A good cup of Earl Grey makes me wake, wakes
my world up from behind the eyes and I snap-to,
believe in things like words and images again.
In sleep, they did not exist. Like meaning, they were
lost on me because I was an exposed, pulsing nerve.
And nerves just have no need to know why they exist.
Good morning! Don’t you wonder why the dying care
more about how hot or cold, what they eat, if the light
is on or off? It’s not because they are afraid of going–
Nowhere or somewhere. Leaving. It’s not. It’s because
they are in a dream where they are a network of nerves,
just feeling it. Feeling everything, recognizing matter.
Being one with matter. Because that makes sense, right?
Things taste good or bad, feel soft or hard, hurt or don’t
hurt. That’s just all it can make of itself when it’s going.
But the paper hits the doorstep, and the not dying, we
connect: Meaning. There it is, it’s come. Nothing quite
better: a good cup of Earl Grey and belief in words again.
