I love making coffee in the morning. Every morning. Every morning here in Seattle. Oh, the gradual, sloppy slide of my naked skin over the edge of my bed after I ax my alarm, the
WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP!
pillow thumper dumper alarm
hearing folks sometimes think is a goddamn bomb.
Yeah, pillow thumper alarm clock. My clock as a small, thick, flying saucer-shaped vibrator I slide inside my pillowcase. It bangs my brains awake. See, I’m beautifully deaf in both ears. I can’t hear. I can’t hear very well, so I therefore I feel. Feel into the world. Feel into it all. Oh, yeah, where’s my Adderall? Where did I put my pill bottle? Oh, goodness, this crazy feeling! So much to know! Just didn’t know I could do it, this feeling, feeling this way and that way, at the unexpected moment I watched someone die. She died horribly, too. Died right in front of me. Died drinking coffee. Or while I was drinking coffee. Bus stop coffee. It’s all a haze of red and brown mist now. As she passed on into the Afterlife, I felt life wrenched loose from dying flesh. Scary at first. Almost…intoxicating. As intoxicating as the smell of fresh roasted coffee in the morning as I prepare the drink of Gods.