lit dimple dot
if you like green
leaves shading rust
rolling in the other way
round like a fuzzy bulb globe
plan draw lips over the peach skin
and rub speak into ink flesh until every
juice puckers sprinkle. Don’t handle or touch
this stone. Simply lean in and buss a not waltz,
like this, but first, take the pipe out of your mouth.
I took a bite out of this, and ants appeared in the furrows of my brain, a whole colony, which tickled and tormented me and made my eyes water. I could barely stand, and I grimaced. I had a terrible headache. Then I sneezed and was all better, holding out in my cupped hands and astonished to find a pile of pepper.
Now there is a reply!
…but the next thing I knew, the pile of pepper turned into tobacco, right before my very eyes. Where does this magic come from? I have no idea, I thought furrowing my brow. What does it matter? A coin fell out of my ear and rolled across the hardwood floor. I looked around surprised, a little scared, then shrugged, figuring I should just go with it, leaning back, and put the tobacco in my pipe and smoked it.
This is not a comment.
Though a word or image is not the thing, nor are maps territories, the value of things in themselves seems to deminish – we rarely bite into whole things anymore.
Unless one has a peach tree in the garden, biting into a whole peach has given way to cut-ups, packaged, fuzz-free dainty little tasters, cyphers of the whole.
Canned peaches in light syrup in wide mouthed jar. Poems from the shelf, that got you through winter. Let us go then, you and I, we’ll dare to eat a peach.
This makes me sigh, deeply :)
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This did something to my brain.
Oh, oh. Memorize two short poems by Robert Frost and recite them often, put them to music.
hey, vh, thx for reading and comment