by Enzo Tacadao

Coffee rings and empty chairs.
Hey, look, my mouth is filled with cool + warm air,
perpetual nudity in my morality.
Entrapment in my feet,
I can’t even nod my way back to zero.
Stir, stir, stir some more,
like sir boatman in a whirlwind sea,
rounding counter clockwise
like in an episode of the Simpsons.
Cup touches my lip, the upper and lower.
Travelling through my throat up to my intestines,
sudden warm liquid makes me immortal.
I’m a man, and I’m a mortal, an immortal.
by Lorenzo Tacadao