Morning Poem by Cristina Musat

GOT UP.

After drinking some of my so-to-say Victoria coffee, just spent some time with my folks. Deceiving. Inside only; pass the butter, see what this lemon here does for the papadie tea? Oh yea, not a bit of sourness. Great meal. Better than those omelets, had some eggs yesterday.

Are you rewriting something?
Yes, poorly.
The master is one – and dead. No mentor to be found, you’re on your own. Your time will come, you’ll get a chance to ask him through eternal waves if you were even close. Or even reincarnated. Throw some Greek in, make it plausible: Machi.

Yes, assert your mind. Enjoy your feast.

The Machine, cut the strings.

I will.

Then I will move freely.