The moon was a heavy drop of milk

in a creamy dark sky

and I sparkled, breaking free

of my cube, gloriously,

in a riot of color.

Of course, it was dark

so the moon made everything

glow like silver -or dead skin.

–

But oh, how the dance unfolded

beneath my feet! And my heart was full

of night, as night should always be:

forgiving, warm, dark, and open.

The apple stem hits my teeth

as I hungrily gnash at the flesh

and I imagine tasting other hands

that handled the apple before I did;

I didn’t bother washing it, just the

almost-acceptable polish-on-the-pants

technique, which leaves all the germs

yet a nice shiny denim glow.

I had the good sense to pull my hair back

or I’d be eating that too.

My curls taste a little like old showgirl,

with a dalliance of muppets.

My kisses taste of golden delicious

and chocolate. With a dash of mania.

I ate through to the seeds.

I look at the seeds, the possibilities,

the knowledge of fruit and skin

and all Eden held before we mucked it up.

I toss the whole core in the trash.

I unwrap another kiss.

Three statues, linked

arm in arm, sliding slowly

across a poppy landscape,

never minding the breeze.

Body parts crumble and fall off

but their cores are smiling.

.

Pacing learned from

letting go the need to race

or linger; just a meander

of souls taking in a rotting

landscape, loving the slide.

Kicking the shit out of

the blaze of glory left

from the spark of static

from my shuffling feet.

I don’t know what to do.

Every person is a wall

without grappling hooks

or even hand-holds.

We slip by each other.

I don’t know what to do.

Piles of paper and numbers

and letters trying to compete

with nature’s fractals

without any sense or humility.

I don’t know what to do.

Walking the same waking steps

knowing there’s little use fighting,

though the taste of a curse

is most decadent on the tongue.

Knees, wrists, neck, sanity all wobble

in the face of a bastard sun

who’d obliterate us all as easily

as it turns on its great ass

like a giant heading for rem sleep.

–

Dreams only come in the

resting moments between despair and glee.

There’s not much else to say in passing.