I stumble into work—

Not that I'm tottering down the hotel hallways per se

—it is more of a mental tumble.

Each morning there is a gray frothiness
that encircles my consciousness,
a tussle between existentialism
and a chimpanzee in a blue suit.

Caught on a string between two worlds,
I must have been dashed upon a wall on the fall.

I dump a clump
of coffee lump
and let the narcotic prep...

In a state of viscous stupor,
I poke at the "blinkey red thingey"
that pries for attention.
In our conversation,
I reply in nonsensical articulation.

Drops of dark roast land upon my tongue;
        my soul SWELLS.

In a transformation akin to Popeye's canned cravings:

TheRushOfAFloodOfTangentsWashOverMe.