Malik Ameer Crumpler

HOUSE BREW WITH BRETON

My coffee whose hair is a celestial cloud
Whose thoughts are honest conceits
Whose waist is an event horizon
Whose waist is the waist of an elephant prostrating before a wooly mammoth
Whose mouth is the dark matter between Andromeda and Cyngus A
Whose teeth leave Clyfford Still streaks staining my enamel
Whose tongue is Choctaw leather
Whose tongue is jet fuel
The tongue of a sugar cane Hoodoo doll with full sized phosphorescent fish eyes
Whose eyebrows are stove top flames on low
My coffee whose temples are humid juke joints in Hot Springs, Arkansas
With wise-wooden windows sweating moonshine
My coffee whose shoulders are mountain’s sweat
Are streams that sing from jaguar pupils to condor wings over captured valleys
My coffee whose russet wrist have never known watches
Whose fingers are maracas rattling in unison with my pulse
Whose fingers are tobacco stems
My coffee with armpits full of guerilla ears and Louisiana swamp moss
And Old Titus sings them blues
That are bunkers full of rusted weapons and underground hide-outs for Northstar chasers
Whose arms are of swamp gods and warrior ghosts desperately resisting the colonies
Whose arms are smokey topaz lakes
Whose legs are scorched constellations
For the deceptive quest of any healing being, invisible or not
Taupe toenails made of chestnut eyed children who swam in lava, laughing
My coffee whose neck is amber bubbles disappearing on the surface
Whose throat is the keeper of Valley Gods
And initiates seekers in the cardboard brothel of Rhea
My coffee whose chest is the garnet galaxy
And full of Turritopsis nutricula
And sard codices of immortality
My coffee whose torso is a laughing panther chewing wet planets
Whose swollen stomach is a coconut cracking from inner lightning
Is about to Amma
My coffee with Ibis eyes helixing in the vortex
With back full of preserved lotuses pods
And peacock tails fanning Hathor
My coffee whose sixth chakra is labradorite and wet sand
And of steam that swirls through the fingers of someone who has just decided to lindy-hop
My coffee with thighs of an Ostrich
That are strong as keels
And all acceleration
My coffee whose aft is astrology and horoscopes
Whose aft is the dark side of neptune in autumn
My coffee whose morning sex conjures the morning star
An adrenaline mine refusing restraint
With the sex of baseball mitts from the 20’s and that Absinthe lady winking
My coffee with the sex of Ovid’s lake
My coffee with eyes full of Grenada’s gypsies doing duende dances in crimson smoke
With eyes that are obsidian cloaks and moorish magnets
With eyes of Ixchel
With eyes full of night skies drinking stars
My coffee with eyes that are not colonial classrooms critiquing colonial constructions
My coffee with no sugar, no milk, no nothing, just black.