A collegiate stimuli
For loading ammo into the Powerful Pink Machine,
During midnight raids through the massive database
Concealed within the written word.

A method to dispel the dry and crumbling shrapnel
Dripping with oil,
That refuses to detach from the glutinous ridges
Set above the impending jaws.

Consumed in the half-lit dawn
Under the constant vigilance of Ol’ Blue Eyes
By those who have survived the battle,

Leaving crepuscular crescents
That melt the ebony ink,
And scar the stark white sheet
Beyond recognition.

An unkickable addiction,
Ravaging teeth and fouling the hot exhales
Ejected from the mouth.

Separation entails a nervous gyration
Of the phalanges
And a stabbing sensation
Resonating through the cranium.

I ought to be tethered to a drip,
And have it course  through the veins
That cross like train tracks over my carpals
Thicker and more abundant than my own bubbling blood.
Or be drowning in a scalding black pool,
Just to keep myself sane.

And yet, my friends still say
“It’s just coffee.”