Deceivingly simple, we sit down
On our ****** plastic step stools
After school in the kitchen.
You ask me how my day was. I say
Fine thanks, learned about quadratics.
I ask you where you went cycling. You say
Oh, you know, the usual. Round out
That way, and back. The usual.
We sit in silence for amount as I cut a slice of apple and hold it out to you across the room.
You take it, and we sit on our ****** plastic step stools
In the kitchen after school,
Sharing silence and an apple.
And I almost love the crisp, cool crunch
As much as I love you.

a rocky place to call home
metaphorically speaking
by the side of a road
among the detritus of motorists
thrown from car windows
as was he, just a core
from an apple in an unfinished
lunch box eaten on the way home
that somehow germinated
I call him, him because
it makes me comfortable
to give gender and character
build up some sort of empathy
in the winter a sad skeleton
silhouette against a slate sky
bur every spring blossoming
to produce apples for the birds
where no human would dare
wander unless broken down
I admire the consistency
of nature and the hope it brings

Slowly fall
The teardrops of the rain,
Slowly into the lake.
Slowly comes September,
As always,
Slowly clasping its hands around us.
Slowly the trees transform
Into ghosts,
Slowly the apples fall and rot,
And the pumpkins, slowly too,
Grow and mature.

Autumn comes slowly.
We feel it in the
Nights and in the wind
Growing colder and colder.
Slowly summer came and left.
And now,
We are left with what
We always had,
Not much:
Two warm hearts
Holding each other,
Two minds content
With time well spent,
Despite the changing times,
Despite September.

Fresh out of the oven,
Steaming, hot and sweet
And I realized all a sudden
That’s something I want to eat

The apple pie just sitting there,
Forbidden, banned, taboo.
But to take just one sweet bite,
There’s nothing id rather do

Like a muse, it sang to me,
Like a siren far ashore
To taste the sweet forbidden apple,
There is nothing id want more

There was no one to tempt me
my actions were my own,
and so I cut a single slice
In the kitchen, all alone.

I knew that mom might catch me,
But I did not care,
Resisting that apple pie,
        Was not something I could bare.

After just a single bite,
I understood the fall of man.
Because the temptation of a lovely apple,
That’s something I can understand.

Falling apples off trees.
Colonies of little ones here.
Apples, apples fall off my tree.

i'll raise an electric fence around
the gods up there
in mountains and ivory towers
and they'll all wear shock collars
too

i'll spread peanut butter on bread
and send it to them through
the mail

i'll write them letters from the
lower world saying that 'time
really isn't a bother anymore
because apples rot in home
baked pies down here'

i'll reach through my own
tainted build up of corrosive
discharge and pull a petal
from the flower of life
to eat in front of
them with a coffee toothed smile

i'll throw weeds over
palisades into
groomed gardens

i'll **** on the flaming sword
spinning like i do
outside
heavenly gates

i'll put AA batteries on
my ******* and force
feed the north star
until it bursts

i'll stain the glass in windows
extolling failures and shining
blunders under vaulted
ceilings

i'll be nothing less than
the imperfect son of
an imperfect man and
an imperfect
woman--

human
all too human
after all

How do you pick the perfect apple on the tree without taking a bite?

At first, it seems impossible.

But when you look into her eyes,

And your heart begins to ache,

And you know you'd part the seas for her,

You've found the only apple worth picking.

I did remember the feeling of apple picking season. I remembered the fall weather and what it was like to find the perfect one. The apples were of red and green, sometimes both, but colors that reminded me of warmth and the candle mother had lit just before dinner was served. It was cold that day but not cold enough for a sweater, just for apple cider and pumpkin donuts. The apple I picked was red, all red. I stood upon the ladder, feeling giant, I reigned over the trees and felt like howling over top of them. I remembered then, the applesauce grandmother would make. I would remember the first bite, the bitter taste of fresh apple, sour but sweet. Grandmothers home.

Bushels of apples
Picked from the orchard this fall
Ripe, crimson, and sweet