Countertop Theories

It’s easy to mistake spilled coffee grinds on a counter top for small dead ants. It is all too easy to mistake sugar granules for the white sands of Montego Bay, to push dunes into a drop of lukewarm water with the etched whorls of a seashell finger farming for life among scattered elements. I have seen the cows that graze on skin, some are as big as elephants, some flock like sheep. The relativity of size and shape troubles them not they munch through dead epithelial cells while you, a giant among pigmies drink your coffee, rinsing your brain with picayune tsunamis. At the bottom of the mug where the past is revealed it’s easy to imagine how all the minuscule beings that grow too large to live can end up as spillage on a countertop. All too easy to conjecture that where you touched your lips with a fingertip worlds broke apart, ran like mercury into a thousand fiefdoms of cloned flora, exiles determined to survive the Brobdingnagian avalanches of your fall-out, a debris that can be instantly wiped away. It’s easy now to see that there is an aqueous cosmos in a bead of sweat that is ignoring you completely as if some greater hand were constantly wiping you away also.