cocaine and coffee
His face was made of bark that was deeply cracked by seasons of frost. It was wide, rounded and terse. Behind him the man dragged a full tree, its pine needles thinning as they dragged through the deep snow. The trees (the one’s that were still standing) sparsley dotted the perfectly sloping hill. He was to drag the tree through the entire forest. Then he’d drag another. And another. His stature was that of a normal man, his pace was slow and the short days long, but it was his work.
* * *
I’m breathing guts. A stray rib is pressing against my cheek as my hair mops up innards, which happen to be surprisingly fresh given the circumstances. This person’s insides still have a hint of warmth but they’ve clearly cooled from the temperature they once were. Even though my head rests uncomfortably in an open chest cavity I don’t dare turn my head to survey my surroundings. Being situated in an insides is not ideal, but finding out what all your other parts are lying is not appealing either. Eventually I look up and see the lips of a frosted pit, whoever was once standing there is now gone, although present company probably won’t be moving on particularly soon.
The easy question to ask in situations such as this is, “how did you come to find yourself in a pit such as this?” (Doesn’t it always have to do getting mixed up with the “wrong crowd?”) The more difficult question, partially because it forfeits one’s ability to ask the first question, is “what are you doing after?” The answer?: Getting a cup of hot coffee.
* * *
One can never be sure how cocaine comes to half cover a mug as if it had been a candy apple haphazardly rolled in confectioner sugar. One can be even less sure how such a mug would be handed to you at a roadside diner. Regardless, one can imagine how it might be rude to ask for another and one can most certainly rest easy on the fact that before you finish that coffee a police officer will sit at the stool next to you.
* * *
Rainwater Cassette Exchange EP
