We made oranges

Hmph, the fucking asshole put his head in the god-damn jar and I’m supposed to be fucking cordial, expose myself to the lighter side of the fucking mess. I’m supposed to watch my language in the midst of a goddamn hurricane. Goddamn disparaging. I have a monster of a time in the aftermath of the discovery that my listless attacks at the social organization matured into a credible threat of anarchy, a visually defined sense of rebellion—sedition. The claim in the afternoon, prior to the down fall, the rain that caught me into the sideways motion of my future arm: the claim that the resistance incurred debt beyond the red. I had a submarine in the bathtub and I was painting pictures of dolphins and lions in the African Serengeti, the desert, the great plains, the fantastic Great Rift Valley, the harbor of the last Magi—no, the birth place of the schooner, and the absent minded dip into multiplicity, for once, as an unrecognizable navigator, there on the promise of only the promise of the rise of the skin and the care of the muscle would arrive the futile fact of the twenty-ninth parallel, the dismal rise of the industrial man and the charitable replacement of the memory of the bizarre: and only a hint, a softened mind that the canine would reimburse the burst flame in the lower corner of the Big Dipper.

And I would walk out, once more an animal. The drawings on the sidewalk and in the bathtub were only the drawings of the world that couldn’t ever be witnessed, not unless, on occasion, it looks as if the sun is really a big orange.

We made oranges, once. Goddamn hypocrites. Fucking soft recognition that the fiercest of enemies is only the friend that reduces the paint that is the life into the blacks and whites and grays of the newspaper. The goddamn reductionist has taken the whole of this earth from us and left us without the whole of us.

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