I keep calling it a pomegranate.
I don't know why. It ain't red, for instance.
The goddamn thing is so amorphous, free.
Bag o' snakes St. Patrick brings to the sea.
The child time I tried on Dad's khaki pants.
A crazy, restless, shape-shifting planet.
But now I see a scene from Altered States.
A burgeoning proto-man in anguish,
whose caught a real first glimpse of the future,
and sees cash cow instead of haute couture;
A Sartrian apple finding language
to express its essence and not its traits.
Who the hell would want to eat such a thing?
Why does it make apple pie nannas sing?
Why not sign up for free at my Tantric Disposition Matrix, my Substack site.
