an apple in the bathroom

The Apple

 

 

an apple in the bathroom
a prose poem

 

There’s an apple. In the bathroom. It’s been there for a while.

Months. Maybe years. It can’t possibly be years. It feels like years. Things don’t change.

It hasn’t gone bad. It’s been cold. And apples have that way of lasting forever. Back in the day they used to put them in barrels.

Because they had a lot of barrels. And nothing better to do.

But the apples lasted.

It’s a little pitted. The apple. In the bathroom. It’s not rotten. But it’s a little pitted. I’ve seen apples. In the supermarket.

That were worse.

I won’t eat it. Not even to make applesauce. Because it’s been in the bathroom. For months. Maybe years.

That makes it dirty. Everyone understands that. It’s meaningless. But everyone understands it. I don’t have to explain.

It isn’t rotten. But I wouldn’t eat it. Even if it hadn’t been in the bathroom. It isn’t rotten. But it’s dead.

That happens to apples. They look fine but you bite into them and they have no flavor. Their sisters had flavor. But not this one. It looks fine but its spirit has fled, and took everything about it that matter. Only the pulp remains.

Sometimes I feel like that. Sometimes.

I think about throwing it out. At times I don’t because I know I would miss it. I don’t care about it but I would miss it because it’s in my life. Like when you break a mug that you never really liked. And you have more than enough mugs. But it’s sad because it was yours. Now it’s gone.

Or maybe I don’t throw it out because I don’t notice it. It isn’t anything. Trash turns to clutter turns to scenery. A stain on your wall that’s been there for nine months isn’t a stain. It’s texture. Why throw away a single leaf that’s fallen off a tree in autumn? There are so many more.

But mostly I can’t be bothered. On those certain days, days when I have no flavor, even throwing out an apple is too much. Picking it up and chucking it to the bin is too much. I could do it. But it won’t matter. Why does it matter?

One day I’ll throw it out. Maybe because it finally decided to rot. But probably because I just want to. Some piece of glass will dislodge from my brain and the clutter will turn to mess. I won’t think the apple is interesting anymore. I won’t think it is beautiful just because it is there. Out of place. A goldfish in a slinky factory.

So I will throw it out. And I’ll feel accomplished because it’s been there for months. Maybe years. I’ll feel cleaner. I’ll feel triumphant.

Then, soon, I’ll feel sad. I won’t regret it. Not really. I don’t need an apple. In the bathroom.

But I’ll feel sad. Because it was there. Because it was mine. And then it was gone.

 

Writing Time?

Sad Day, Good Tea

All day long
I think about my writing
Planning my scenes
hearing the back and forth of dialogue
so sharp
you could put it in a salad dressing
dreaming up plot twists
so twisty
you could put them in a series of cocktails
then sell them to college students
for way too much

As I’m driving,
I barely see the road,
I barely hear the drone of my audiobook
which is about mindfulness
and the irony
almost escapes me
because I’m weaving words like cloth,
spinning tales like straw
into the good quality string cheese
mixing metaphors like pasta
being mixed
with other stuff

While I’m working, taking calls,
I speak to the customers with my voice
and my mind steps away
into to realms with black sunsets,
where knights, armored in stars,
fight quasars, with tortured pasts
and something to prove
to their sisters
or something

Then it’s time to write,
and I think
you know what, this might not be the time for this,
I’ve got other things to do,
like maybe I should just play cup and ball instead
that’s so meaningful, so fun, how could I resist
and I know
I don’t have a ball
no big deal
I’ll just hold this empty cup
for a while

They Have Teeth

Strange tree trunk

Another 37, Day 14

I’m not quite sure what I have against wood, lately. Anyway, here’s another horror poem! But I quite like I this one. It sort of formed in my head while I was working and supposedly concentrating on other things. It’s been running through my head all day.

 

 

wooden teeth
They Have Teeth

just so you know
the trees have teeth
they like to eat pork
they’d rather have beef

but if they can get it
it needs to be said
they prefer the soft tissue
that lives in your head

you’ll never see them
though they’re always bared
they hide in the places
you’d rather not stare

if you see them glisten
in the venomous night
you’d best strike their form
from your mind and your sight

for if they ever realize
we know that they’re there
you won’t want to breathe
what they leave of the air

so there’s only one truth
that I need to bequeath
just forget that I told you
the trees, they have teeth

Limericks, Malebogia Style

Sock Zombie Puppet

Another 37, Day 12

I seem to be in a horror mood again. Which is kind of a shame, since the serial novel I plan to slowly write over the next year or so isn’t horror. Oh well. These phases never last. Anyway, I’m always in the mood for limericks! And by always, I mean never. But ever since that passage in the second Harry Potter book spoke of a book that made anyone who read it speak in limericks for the rest of their life, I’ve been practicing. Just in case. So here are a few that I come up with while dwelling inside…whatever pit of midnight-black and clown-car yellow you need to splash around in to make horror limericks seem like a good idea.

 

Limericks, Malebogia Style

I can’t get enough of your blood
it flows from the hole like a flood
just one little nick
with this nice sharpened stick
and you fall to the ground with a thud.

We found an old book in the attic
inscribed on the skin of a haddock
we tried a spell
and it worked pretty well
except now my own brother’s a paddock.

I heard a strange sound in the night
it was dark so it gave me a fright
then came in a thing
made of darkness and wing
and began to devour the light.

There once was a man name of Sutton,
he finished the last of his mutton,
then he looked at the town
and said “screw it I’m down”
before pressing the very last button.

Lacey looked down at her grave
quite depressed that she couldn’t be saved
but there’s always a lining
hell, her future was shining
time to go out and be more depraved.

The blood on the knife, how it shined
and there’s no way those ropes will unbind
time to go watch some Grover
the day’s almost over
and there’s more than one way to unwind.

Jessica seemed ordinary
so no one knew she was a fairy
at night she stole kids
parents blamed it on SIDS
and never did think to be wary.

Heavy Meta Verse

sound waves - low volume

Another 37, Day 5

The words to this song
are the notes to the tune that is
based on this song that I’m writing,
right now,
I hear behind me the electric sizzle of the guitar strings
screech away
like synapses
in my brain, that imagines them,
loud and resonant and screaming all around me
I hear it, and it moves me
to write the same song
that is playing

It sounds like the taste of a madeleine
I dipped into the tea of my waning years
when I was just a child, short and intense
and balding
with giant eyes within which I sat,
staring at myself
through the lens of the letters
of the lines of the words
you are reading right now,
a memory I just invented
inspired by a dream I plan to have
tomorrow about my future childhood,
from way back then
back when things weren’t done yet

And the song is a conversation
at the same time
with itself,
recursive
letters, in a script you can see if you stand
far enough away from this poem and watch
as it flows

A song which becomes aware of itself
once you let it go
fire it out of the cannon of words into the battlefield
where the waiting audience waits,
hungry
to devour it,
but right now it’s embryonic,
as it discusses itself with itself,
unable to know itself, unable to set,
underbaked
if you stick a conceptual toothpick in the middle
it comes out gooey

And now I, the poem, the song,
unconceived, in progress, complete,
will finish myself, with myself,
aware that my awareness is a lie
and that the words that make up my bones
and my ambitions are just pixels,
that make shapes,
that make letters,
that make words,
that make lines,
that make verse,
written by a writer, who is me, but won’t admit it
because it would disrupt my poem,
and because he’s a writer
and we’re stubborn that way.

 

Thoughts in Vermillion

Red moon

I think of you
whenever I see vermillion light
Not idle thoughts, fancies, flitting through my mind
Thoughts with texture
Viscosity
Chew
The kind you feel

It happens when I walk on the crystal sand beaches
near Vellorax
The orange light of the waters drowns my vision
and thoughts of you drown my mind
The waves purr against the rocks
and the sand
and it is your purr, and I can hear you,
and I know you can hear me, too, in your way

I think of you in the city
by the gambling dens
with their bright orange signs
like gaudy neon pumpkins
hanging above them, unsupported in the hot evening haze
They cry out effort, bland commercialism, a struggle for desperation
But I don’t see it
I just see you
The color penetrates my eyelids
And I can taste you on my lips, feel your softness on my fingers

I think of you in tangerine,
in persimmon,
in bittersweet shimmer,
Sometimes with intention, sometimes blind,
stealthy
The thought floods through me, and I think of you
The color of your pelt
And so you think of me

Even right now, I stare up at the vermilion moon
And I wonder if somewhere, right now,
you can see it too
Then you speak, telepathically,
your tone sleepy and annoyed,
and you remind me that of course you can’t see it
you are in a different star system
and anyway you don’t process color like I do,
so you couldn’t tell the vermillion moon from the crimson,
and I should stop being silly
then you pull away
and go back to sleep

I knew you were sleeping
and that if I stared at the moon
it would texture my thoughts
and you would hear them
in your beautiful, colorless dreams
I feel guilty, but it makes me smile
a vermillion smile
because we are far away, now
and sometimes
I just need to hear your brain