Spilt coffee on the table and hearing the drip drip

Spilling goes to spilt as spoiling goes to spoiled. Sold American where selling is conquest without parting with gold and treasure is thought to be the arrival of souled Americans, which is, to some, a pity and others a monstrosity and still others one of several causes of celebration.

We have warrant to say if John was hit by this falling Apple, then this falling Apple hit John. Some think we have warrant to say the falling Apple exhibits the properties of gravity, and others would describe at as exhibiting a theory of gravity’s properties. Others say the bitten Apple foretell human misery, just as it enabled truth to have bite and gain purchase on the world. Gaining purchase is an old-time and cold-ass form of apprehension, which is just one more circle, perhaps, whose circumference will admit of expansion. It is on these Sunday nights, most often, when I want to walk into a painting and get lost in it, to climb into the percussive list of a poem and find the beat of my heart fall into line with the rise and fall of its phrasing and breaks and melt into its soft sibilants and brace against its hard flat Saxon stopping points.

I can’t help but watch the surface tension of the puddle gathered on the grain of the wood or find solace in the soft scratch of the pencil as it makes progress and then lifts and drops to the start of the new line as the needle on the record player draws ever tighter loops and sets the bright declarations of a trumpet pregnant with the birth of cool against the percolating hiss and excess of a new cup filling and spilling over.