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The Fall of Angel IslandThe shrieks of the stone as the world falls apart
the shatter of rock like a thunder-bolts roar
boulders tumble into the ocean below
repercussion of sorrow swallow the shore
Idols and statues and temples of old
turn into dust as the ground eats away
at it's own magnificent succulent glow
and succumbs to the grip of explosive decay
Whispering oaks leap from their perches
like disheartened souls in their moment to shine
with the creature of red falling from over head
clinging for life to the crumbling shrine
a glimmer of green is all the light to be seen
through the downpour and howling of the last breaths of night
and a creature of crimson falls with the gem
that holds it's own guardian in it's limitless light
What's left of the island lets loose a death rattle
as the last of the stone and the grass and the trees
chase the green gem into the black murky darkness
offered unto them by the beckoning seas
And the green sheath of light slowly sinks out of sight
in the grip of the creature of
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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