Thursday, June 24, 2021

Tasting the Mad Apple

 

 

Yours is purple he said 

over salmon loaf and canned green beans 

 

a Wednesday dinner aura reading 

like the Magic 8 Ball 

that fell on the sidewalk.

 

Rounding out like eggplants 

the glass halves root 

in the grass beside the walk

 

ink spilling over white concrete

like squid escaping on a cutting board 

in the back of the Othello Inn

 

blue-black streams bearding out

irises with rhizomes 

clinging to jagged cracks. 

 

I hear these so-called mad apples 

have nicotine centers

 

second-hand smoke 

in a basement bar 

where drunks padlock belt loops. 

 

Nothing royal.

 

Nothing more than dried blood.

No comments:

Post a Comment