Like some pitted, coal-black dragon egg,
it sits among the other fruits, exuding weight.
It draws my eyes away from the obsequious apple and banal pear,
its shape curving elegantly between their contours.

As my hand clasps around it, I feel its skin
of sinful reptilian texture.
As I place it upon the cutting board, a hundred possibilities
spring to mind.
What will I do with this trove that lies before me?
I will take a knife
in one hand
and the avocado in the other.
I know that, like gold it will be heavy,
and will feel soft without being so.

The knife breaks the skin.
Never has so smooth a wound been made,
as the blade circumnavigates the centre.
And with a twist,
it falls open.

A blinding springtime dawns on my eyes, revolving
around a dark sun,
and the absence of one.

So perfect these halves look, side by side,
the only two pieces
of a sultry puzzle.

There is no blast of stinging scents.
They are the enigmatic philanthropists of the fruit world,
bestowing their riches quietly,
without great shows of favour.

The first long, horizontal slice slides free
and lies, curving wonderfully in and out.
Fingers reach down and arm moves up,
lips part.

The moment the vibrant green meets desiring red, I breathe again.

Nothing else in this world has such a wealth
of subtle freshness,
or spreads as soft as morning sunlight.
And yet it is never airy or thin,
but carries an embracing gravity.

I open my eyes.
The rest of the fertile crescent awaits me.

The prison bus
passes this way

every now and then,
surfacing without

warning—a leviathan
of metal, grease, and glass

its dark windows secured
by squares of rusted wire

its diesel engine heart
spewing exhaust that

turns morning rain
the color of seawater.

The prison bus
does not stop
for stop signs;

red lights are nothing
but violent memories
strung in an overcast sky.

When the bus strikes
something in its path

the prisoners bounce
slightly in their seats,

lifted into
impartial air

liberated
momentarily

by the familiar
co-conspirators
of blood and laughter.

In his dreams,
the guard who
drives the prison bus
circumnavigates the globe,
plowing through clouds
of insects that shimmer
like fuel above the road.

Feel free to self-govern;
          rebellions have shown consistency of
                                           bringing more rebellions
but does this actually bring change?

     Boston lead to Bastille
          ****** Sunday to Bolshevik
Each a milestone for this
                                           sophisticated species.

Accomplished aliases of these turning points
           were the pioneers of a never ending cycle:

discontent, revolution, reconstruction, new order.
                                                          ­                            
To control brings demise
To revolt changes tides

            and as long as the moon circumnavigates the sky,

                                            the tides will predictably relapse.

I sit in a flimsy plastic chair that squeaks at the slightest movement,
Ana stands because it burns more calories and says I should do the same
My arms are folded over my chest, slouching and brooding
The bracelet Ana bought me sounds like shackles when I move
The wedding band on my finger weights more than I do
"Why are you here today?" Our therapist asks
"She's been cheating on me with that **** Mia!" Ana yells
"I already told you it didn't mean anything. We were broken up then."
My explanation makes her angrier though and she snaps,
"You just can't handle commitment!"
I've heard her use this voice multiple times and a list of all the insult circumnavigates my brain
Stupid
Ugly
Worthless
Never good enough
Unlovable
Pathetic
Fat
Fat
FAT
"You call this uncommitted?" I point to my stomach which growls on cue
Our therapist asks how long we've been together
I say over 2 years
Ana says we've been together my whole life
I tell him she's abusive
"It doesn't look like she's done that much damage" He notes
When the hours up Ana walks to the door
I tell her I just need a minute
I turn to our therapist who's already packing up
"Please help me. I need to get our of this relationship now!"
He ***** his head up as if it's the simplest answer in the world,
"Then why don't you just eat?"

oh, the fire with its dancing beams
welcomes each morning with hues so bright,
engorges as the globe circumnavigates,
fading, dissolving, with approaching night.

the clouds play tag with the ball of gas:
covering, as curtains - some thin, others thick.
mighty Cumulonimbus precedes the drops;
delicate Cirrus wisps are the sky’s speckled pick.

the forests serve as shadows for all the horizon:
redwood to palm, soaking up a meal
from the glowing radiations that branch out;
the rooted ground is theirs to steal.

the species of the world adapt to its clock.
majestic elephants roam while the glows remain,
and owls wait for the blackness to settle;
everything in its path is cured of their pain.

My sunbeam in the morning -the field of energy that circumnavigates the past . The tenon securing thoughts -preventing miscommunication , reticent , careful what to share ...To remain steadfast in private battles devoid of fear , the molecule in the scent plume that wolves can lock in on with uncanny precision inside the odor gradient ! Look malevolence in the eye and not blink .. To be cognizant and intensely focused as opposed to haphazard , omnipresent ...Receive indicators and triggers , process them in their totality , exercising their potential benefits with caution at whirlwind speed ...

silence is a balloon in my hand. an erratic saxophone with notes as blue as doves
            strangled in noxious space.

            android Jesus, not quite the shadow, verily the toppled light
   renaming things underneath its parasol – hundredfold of monikers
    and a solitary weight of love.

                  this is where the blood starts to make sense in its cold shrill:
   a dagger making its way towards my back. here are few routines of ablution;

a conflagration of bodies. razed sandalwood. first to go is gravity. last are the bodies
    helium-gorged, afloat – there is an immense price for solace.

                                cyclic spectral          cyclic spectral

   there’s man in ox but never an ox in a man. can you feel the tenacious drone
      of the oncoming storm? can you feel the Sun so sick of its diurnal labor?
                            can you feel the tantric *** of dew? its sensorial fissures?
             butchered serrations of grass are like torrid piles of moist ***** ready for ******.
            
   again, here comes the quietus. on the loathsome table lies the shrapnel
     of last night’s carnal invitation. a moth not named Marieta circumnavigates a bayonet
                       of elastic fire. here comes the marauder of quiet again,

     in my hand, a round, red, silent balloon – I let it go, in such relentlessly hoodwinked
              pursuit towards a god that may or may not know how
                                to dance underneath the bludgeoned beat.

Do you want to see inside?
I'm afraid you can't
It's too messy inside
I need that space to hide
All that useless junk we buy
And I haven't swept up yet
There's the corner where I cried
We had a stinky rat, but it died
That room's for my bride
That door is an illusion
It really leads outside
Circumnavigates our dwelling
There really is no telling
Why that portal lies
That's not a door!
It's a jar!
And it's letting in the flies
And they're buzzing all inside
My hollow head, which I call home
My brain is locked, the key's a comb
Please don't enter
It's not a house
It's a tomb

There’s a lot of people you don’t know.
Then there’s a lot of people you don’t know
but have heard of, and know their work.
Then there are some people you’ll start
to know, know a little bit of, some
of the time. Just. These people know
this or they don’t. These people like to flit,
and know this. Or they don’t. Now
then, and then finally, but – a few others,
yes, of course – then there is yourself,
who is an other, a person people, of
course. This one you know
on occasion, and when the weather is
right, when the sun hits you like that
off your friend, her eyes and her tongue,
his laugh and its wake;
when the wind smells like it used to,
and you always knew that that was the best smell
but had never put it to the test.

Put me to test.

Then you know at least part of it, that
person. He’s you and she’s there, but so
what. Can you feel it like you your yourself,
and do those other ranks concur,
or is the map a listless thing,
walls up like sundown,
hazy in our blue light,
no stars the remedy for a feeling
this split.

Take her home under this
aegis and play the part. You’ll soon get tired
so that’s the point. No one will undo
your sensitivity; he will not fall into your
palm tree, nor shake down the coconuts.
This paradise extends to you self-assured
leeward, only,

propped up under each other’s semblance.
Of Self, now that’s the one. Don’t have
to hold on too tight. There are those that
would relinquish control with outstanding
clarity. You would skim all rank and creed, mind.

You will propel. Function. Initiate. Burn
and bleed and see. Nothing too complicated.
Or serious. Just people in their pile ups,
ego echoing with a submerged song
stifled under the submissive yawns of yesteryear,
provokes us all to shape darkly in each other’s
cupped and accompanying skeletons,
nestled in our animal independence,
skin-deep misty in the sighs of
our mutual opposition.

And then there’s love,
which goes all the way back around and
circumnavigates that lower half.
Just like that.