I’m refreshing this blog with a thought blob about a rotting fruit. Sweet juxtaposition, man.
There is a rotten apple on my dashboard.
The bite marks are browning like tanned leather and
It’s making my car smell like the inside of a trash can.
The apple doesn’t scream at me to do anything with it.
The apple is content on my dashboard.
My nose is not content with the apple.
But to pick it up would mean sticky fingers
And sticky fingers mean inevitable lint
And lint reminds me I need to do laundry.
An apple is like a dryer sheet is like a promise.
Do this live this way be healthy like me smell good.
People like pristine people. Crisp people.
But when you reach the core you may bite a seed.
Or it’s rotten in places you thought it was fresh
and it has that taste like shoe leather
Tanning shoe leather and dashboard polish in your mouth.
I don’t lick my dashboard.
The stem has always perplexed me.
After all, we never see the chain of production
unless we’re farmers or kids on a field trip to the orchard.
So stems seem superfluous; this isn’t a living thing, is it?
It rots because it once breathed it once lived
A life complete separate from ours
Ours which takes nourishment without gratitude.
Sometimes I wonder if we’ve lost our stems
If people remember that we’re alive.
Our lives all so separate, so rotten.
I think I once hung like an apple on a tree
With dangling friends ripening around me.
My skin looks like tanned leather and
Is polished like a dashboard.
I am not a crisp person.
