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12 Coffee Everything has its mouth to manifestation . . . —Jakob Böhme Then what does matter mean if nothing matters? You answer, blood moves & we keep waking, my pet, my back-handed hope— the point’s moot. Back of my hand: blind side that never blisters from the rake, nor tracks the creamy slope of pleasure. The diner blinds divide & welcome a buttered morning light to flare on railback chair & pyramided silver tops of sugar jars— almost makes you dream it all starts up again. The truth is it does & it doesn’t. I put my mouth to manifestation’s clay lip, my lips to sun sliding across the winedark , oily surface of today’s brew—Galata Kulesi Cuvee, then into me. ...

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