library:poems

Never look hungry - Tibian’s Eighth Rule of Conduct. The fruits; incidental fruits and I am not in this room, was not, ever is not, will not be, not is, in this pale pale room. YOU, focus, sophisticated eater, lounging flat in your room now, your hot pound coffee tornado creaming in your cocoa cup, tenderly whirling, spooned circuit location of lubrication; electrify that tangerine odor, (which at this very moment I could be burning on my wicker table) tangerine. Tangerine. Adroit finger nimbly dimple the skin of the smooth triple tangerine. Odor so potently tart I can smell it through sun; beyond sun / is sun, cratered surface of the tangerine; you digging your finger into it, the speed in sun, in year (no rings on your fingers). Orange scene, ripping shingle of orange peel cracking surface template, no thunder crack, no earthquake pulling back, white stringy epidermis peeling off soft. Hello! You orange plunge fuzz naked with your cup of coffee and tangerine, alone. Singly stated, what fourth dimension apparition am I picking here? This transparency delay...? The image in word that doesn’t. One shaky shard of tangerine slip - pops out of your hand, skimming surface of beam dropping to toenail, bouncing to rest. You pluck it up. Crust of the coy sun. Suspend it eye level; recline your pale arm behind you. Cracking chair. Discard the shard into your shredded pile. Clutch it. Two handed - one hand on skinned tangerine (bulbous, circular, globular) one hand on the ribbons of skin. Jigsaw, which is real? NEITHER. Because this of this scene not really is not really happening is, focus, your eyes well up. A thin drift slice of sun invades your skin, careening solar gashes. Crying, over dry slips of sun from an inconsequential shade. You naked, I’m substantially not in the room. I’m in this one here pale, sniffing tangerine. In 1925 my grandmother laughs. Hands slender, tender, splattered noisily by tangential drops. Brushing aside, navigating, winding through white buds, hairy stems ticking, carefully, selecting frail wood basketfuls of plump citrus treats. In 1975. Not within a photograph. I was going to tear off your hue bearing clothes, lights about now, though I’m only smelling the rings (The rings on the fingers or the rings of the tangerine?), but no, it looks like I’m just smelling the odor the odor of the fruit. Let’s consider the color of the fruit because the smell hath no shade. Narrow spectrums of human vision- the ability to perceive sunlight simultaneously with olfactory perception - imagine only color corona, the only color that be; do not forget ultraviolet radiation) this too colors your scene, only by exposing delicate spots of spectrum in 1991, 7 in the morning, sun clicking still. In the living room tocking, poetry by folded napkin, I wait at breakfast table. Incidental sparrows, incidental birds navigate tree limbs fluttering zig zag, pittering pantry, pounding seed. Grandmother brings the bowl of grapefruit. Sugar bowl lies in drawer. Grapefruit: dirty yellow, though freshly washed, bead of tap water streaming down the circumference of the half hull. Seems like a dirty sunspot, but it’s clean. Sugar’s necessary only sprinkle lightly. Half end of grapefruit up, sanded, plunging spoon into division dislodging slice for mouth. Sour chunk made sweet nay only by manual process. Somewhere in sun, all grapefruits amongst all others in existence, RARE. Exceedingly, am I eating the fruit? Am I eating the woman? That is a fruit? The fruit that is a woman my grandmother finds under the sun, contemplating. Light solidly on the back of her hand. In 1975 and in 1995 turns of youth, punctuated by clusters of plastic fruit in opaque glass bowls. Sandy damp bathing suit bearing fruit stripes, you bathing suit in sun. Since I have never seen you in a bikini, I am using colors in the fruit bowl in 1975 to project your image in 1995. Ultra violet rays are not required. Hold that stripe on the nape of your neck, yellow strike stripe on your waist GRAPE bare ORANGE stripe on your shoulder strap APPLE stripe on hip. Hot colors of the Bikini you are not wearing on the not beach, in the no sand, under no sun, in not 1995. In 1997, two things. Number 1. Grapes cannot be used as ben wa balls, don’t you know walls of flesh would crush them flat, squash them into runny juice. Get a solid object. Why don’t you feed them to the animals while your invulnerability is skinned? Litmus test of vulnerability to color, and hey (!) I’m not in the room while you feed the grapes to your new BOTANIST. He crushes the grape against the roof of his mouth with his chlorophyll tongue. Who is this guy? Quicking, your arm shaking. C’mon, every grape you pluck, one moment I am not in the room, and this BOTANIST, this BOTANIST, this BOTANIST, he has a whole bag of barren stems. Literally, I am no daughter’s father, I am not there during sunrise, not there during noon, not there during death. Fiendish orchard of extrapolated lust, the BOTANIST can only dream of streams of milk and the taste of naught nipples the color of apples, crash cream over cornbread. Maybe you need a bagful of grapes, but I need to suffocate silk in apple blossom dreams. Plastic fruit dreams, fruit baskets, fruit bowls. Demote. In 1991. Never look a dream yellow pear, never examined that curve tapering that curve, never will, never did, never is. Want to bite your soft. Pear yellow blushed with green. Don’t stand up straight. Set it on it’s stem. One pear, the only object on a hard dark oak table. Locate shadow, where sun projects on it. Symmetry bears importance. Nudity, continuing to be dramatic, frail suspended in light. Bland taste of the pear. The color, the shape, the taste? What defines the pear? Light. Your bare feet on the hardwood floor. Because of the pear. Because of the pear yellow or green, the curve of your elbow. In pear in yellow in different light green. When it’s steady behind your head, yellow, occasionally with a green leaf on a yellow stem. When given the green opportunity, I have never entirely yellow devoured one green yellow pear. In 1975. Cream Candied Cherries in a cool Ball jar. Stationed in the blue hinged butter door of the fridge. Poet know the jar is there, poet generally ignore it. I could eat the whole jar if I could. If I could acknowledge that the whole Ball jar existed. Abstinence and temperance. Because the jar is in the fridge not in the sun. On cherry per visit is all you get. You can’t have more than one, or you’ll get sick. On the fruit. In the fridge. In 1997. Finally consider ways, various ways of going at an apple. Take an apple, several slices divided in seconds. Seconds of time or seconds of space. Because by necessity, an apple must be cut or peeled successively in time, into pieces in space and you cannot reassemble separated parts, you can only remake them by digestion. And also, you cannot cut the core of the sun. In 1925, I am eating you across from me. Me across from you eating. Eating me across from you. Of color of smell, of sensory perception and click of sun time you know this I pears you are on the beach, strawberries beautiful focus, in apples pieced and separated, peeling tangerine in kitchen, in beach. Cap the lid. Screw it ; I am only absolutely certain of the smell; the tangerine candle in room NOW, with 65 to 70 hours of burning time; the odor of this candle not in light, selective of the elements you pick, assembling transparencies of tangerine in candle lit, candescent bowls.