How You Are Like a Cantaloupe

How You Are Like a Cantaloupe
How You Are Like a Cantaloupe

one shouldn’t court
such controversy
so early on with no
payoff plan in place
one means this to
be a simple poem
about ribald rind
brainiac of seeds dis-
solves brown sugar
hypotaxis in scalding
green tea teaches
the kid a thing or two
about sweetness
manners like
a cantaloupe.

Arrow Site

thunged

undefined distaste
not thumb-thunged
skeptic flight
raspberry flesh
raspberry blood
torment where tongue
invents wound and
flavor at arrow site

Piero Manzoni

Wikipedia Poem, No. 474

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really
want a pineapple
exhibited
in
you wouldn’t really want
a pineapples quite highly
as that look like green fountains
at the top he
said but
you
wouldn’t
really want a pineapple
exhibited
in you wouldn’t really want a pineapple exhibited
in you wouldn’t really
want
a pineapple exhibited in
you wouldn’t really want a pineapple exhibited in you
wouldn’t
really want a pineapple exhibited in you
wouldn’t really want
a
pineapple
exhibited
in you
i wish i’d never seen
wouldn’t really want a
pineapple
exhibited in you wouldn’t
really want a pineapple exhibited
in
your
homere
quite highly as
they are
quite highly as they
are
quite
highly as they
are
quite highly as
that
look
like
green
fountains at
the
top he said but
your homes they
are quite
highly as the
top he
said but you wouldn’t really
want a pineapple exhibited in you wouldn’t really
want
a pineapple exhibited in you wouldn’t really
want
a pineapples
quite highly
as the
top he said
but
you wouldn’t
really want a
pineapple exhibited in
you wouldn’t
really
want a pineapple
exhibited in you
a photograph of piero manzoni
wouldn’t really want a
pineapple exhibited in
you wouldn’t really want
a pineapple
exhibited
in
your homele exhibited
in you wouldn’t really want a pineapple exhibited in you wouldn’t
really want a pineapple exhibited in you
wouldn’t really want
a pineapples quite highly as that look like green fountains at the top he said
but your
homeountains at the
top he
said but
you
wouldn’t
really
want
a pineapple
exhibited
in you wouldn’t
really want a
pineapples quite
decorative objects
sort
of colonial
superfruits with leaves that look
like green fountains
at
the top
he
said but you wouldn’t
really want a
pineapple exhibited in your homeuits
with leaves that look like green fountains
at
they are quite highly
as that look
like green fountains at the top he
said but you wouldn’t really want
a pineapple exhibited in you wouldn’t really want a pineapple
exhibited in your homep he said but you
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really want a pineapples quite
highly
as the top he said but you
wouldn’t really want a pineapple
exhibited in
you
wouldn’t
really want a
pineapple
exhibited in
you wouldn’t
really want a pineapples quite highly
as they
are quite highly as they are
quite highly as that look like green
fountains at
they
are
quite highly
as
that
look like
green fountains at
they are quite highly
as they
are quite highly
as they are quite highly as the top
he copyrights

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Source:

Impossible Numbers

Wikipedia Poem, No. 418

wiki418-sm

after Vijay Seshadri

and numbers
no matter how abstract
laced together
in a ceramic bowl
farmost
impossible

an implication of angels
argue about 3 green apples
in an old lady’s outstretched hands
the numb plain makes no sense

lust

in a cracked ceramic bowl
clearly the old lady and the victim
language sunlesions real flesh
strugges to become impossible
numbers punish its argument
3 brown dates drown in scree
neon tulips green apples

[You’re a fucking p]

Image

You’re a fucking p
lum of the self
ish—I can see down your shirt.

Moss predawn across liquid eye
lid intimates illness and promise and
premise—I can see up your nose.

How many YouTube views until you cross
over? Have you ever cared about your first love?
Statistically speaking: You’ll be dead soon.

Untitled Standard Love Song, 04142014

You mention yr secret
     like a chipped front tooth
     shot across the grapefruit sky
     yr smile     smoke trails behind
     
And I defer
     ...
     slice my name in two
     spray its pieces with
     hundreds of random numbers
     where they feed     I feast

Now you
know me.

Who Is Not Me But a Metaphor

It’s OK
Say it
No
Out loud  

Good, good
Next time yr held
Or perhaps holding — that
Core warm brand of love
— Say it, again
Just above a whisper

It’s OK
Say it
To the sea wind
To the cheap crumpled bed sheets
          by whom?
To that masterfully grown blood orange
          you’re about to peel and lick
Say it
And you shall be freed.

sense memory no. 1 [revision, 082320121822]

suddenly the sweetness of some fruit
i can’t recall
memory’s maw models some flowery drupe,
not a mango
spread across a lisp thin wheat
its saccharine spear implacable
i heave on repeat, breathe
in hopes of dislodging the pneumonic
of seeds, split spit and juice — an unmistaken
but missing flame

[for Matthew Rohrer, 062120121546]