Fruit wars: The battle for pineapple island

Apples on top of grapes in a bowl
Photo by Yoksel 🌿 Zok on Unsplash

The grapes were ready with their machine guns,
shooting into the air while screaming,
riding mopeds,
circling,
rousing themselves up,
Apple looked at them
from a distance with binoculars.
They're coming.
He calculated, considered,
strategized, consulted Granny Smith,
launched a raspberry grenade,
an explosion of flavor.
Apple, the cannibal, sipped the results,
having wine the evening
of his victory.

Big-headed, green alien with large black eye and grim bearing in a car.

So I set your spaceship on fire because you had the nerve to abduct me during the pandemic

There are probably a number of approaches, applied in different combinations,
first in steel and iron, then in gold and silver, later in satins,
dotting them on the canvas, straightening your afro with your free hand,
thinking how things might be terrifying on a spaceship, but also a little liberating,
the possibility of boredom vanishes instantly. You hope the aliens are stupid
enough to give you the wheel so you can test the limitations of their FTL tech.
Who is this strange human
and why does their leisurewear look so comfortable? 

"It can't be helped", you yell out, laughing, slippers swishing, running
from the four foot minions. 

Sometimes, when you look up at a shooting star, think, for a second
that it could be you setting someone's spaceship on fire,
bringing humanity to the cosmos.

What if Salvador Dali’s face is normal and you’re the weirdo: A poem about perspective and how we take our uniqueness for granted

First, I must say I don't care much for defending the guy's face,
but chances are you were wrong all along 
and the swimsuit magazines show the face of Salvador Dali on the cover
to say, "See. We're normal."
Salvador's face is normal and you're a weirdo,
he has a curly mustache and he makes googly eyes,
Little children will play in front of his paintings
and be shushed by their parents for years.
Monitor with a Youtube menu on the screen.

The marvelous microchip: Random collected thoughts in singsong form about computer-related things

Isn't it funny you're all the way where you are
reading me through something brought about by ones and zeros,
that the glow is comforting, I bet, said the screen,
I'm kind of okay with clacking keys,
fitting with my nervous temperament.
If I type quickly enough I can hear cheering.
My glowing clock says 1am. The f**k,
why am I still typing?

HUHUHUH, LOOK AT ALL THIS COOL SH**  on the internet,
says my reptile brain.
I slither. Something about me is cyberpunk.
Not true says my natural-looking hair
anyway, it's time to eat cheesy snacks
and type some more.

Here's the marvelous microchip,
TADA!
Man looking into the distance over hills

I suppose there are studies on sights seen by nocturnal humans

I know we're in some way or form asking who does to the doer,
but can we at least consider if any doing should be done, 
eliminating action where better inaction,
with stillness poised for better acting?
We haven't decided on what to do'
in this case or that case
but rather the convenient case for the moment;
is the doer convenient for the moment or should they be done?
No one has decided.


.

Do you want to go into the future. A futuristic poem by Blerdinator X.

Do you want to travel on a spaceship?
Interstellar type,
is it interesting?

I like dancing to robot music.
Magical, with laser arms. 
This is Blerdinator X.

Posting bored on the internet.
We still have cheesy snacks in the future.

Pass the remote.
I Sip my coffee in the future.

Lemons

Hi, so who likes drinking lemondade? I Do. A Poem.

I like reds and yellows.
I like all flavors of tart.
Incomprehensible, I king of the lemons.
Here, I write to you
a sip of the
at the same time sweet drink.

Completeness.
I king of the lemons.

Man in starry campground, emitting the infinity sign

Death of the person begets the soul: How personalities fail where good ideas do not

It's something you wonder, if I'm good or bad,

worth knowing or better left ignored,

that you seek out my true name,

who simply does and is known for doing,

obscure, beyond consideration,

so most fathom the red carpets,

shouting slogans, well-worn phrases,

fashionable philosophies,

fighting for people they've never met

or perhaps met in part, but never knowing,

assuming a soul connection's made

at tiresome brunches,

continuous jet-setting,

hands shaken till the automated

movement ceases registering

so much so that you begin to wonder

if you exist outside of the papers,

if you exist outside of the screen,

if you exist outside of your occupation

through possession of your own person

or if you'd rather be a personality.


I don't know if, when the driver drives me,

I am more than the walker,

I don't know if, when when in my hovel,

my shielded body surpasses those

of the houseless.


Sleep evades me

and the moon looks down disappointed

at my lack of ambition,

reflecting on my past days,

lighting well-paved roads and driveways,

clean houses with granite kitchen counters,

closets the size of bedrooms

of boys sleeping under tin roofs;

the bugs surround them;

the ants climb up their cracked concrete

walls,

carrying the feast too small

for the animal's stomach.

When palms wake them

with susurrations

because they've ignored 4 o' clock roosters,

know that I am already awake,

my eyes dotted by white squares,

lines lining my eyelids,

my lips chapped, thirsting for lord-knows-what,

nerves pulsing.


Being who I am disappointed me, at first,

but the oceans surpass me in profundity.

I saw whales rise, blowing out air

and not one of them asked for my name

and title (don't they know

who I am?)


I labor in need of laboring

for my life's sake,

no different than the dog sniffing

about the cafeteria, relying

on the charity of my betters.


I labor knowing my labor will cease,

my name on the paper finally,

survived by the genes

seeking further propagation,

growth then decay, then growth,

surrounded by uncountable stars;

we so feebly try to capture them all,

to spread them over a canvas,

to mount them on a wall,

to show them to friends,

plants lining our windows (don't they know

they're our decoration?);

They vainly reach towards the sun through blinded

windows, at the mercy of their use

for conversation, then they brown

and are replaced by others.



Woman in ornate red hat and beautiful clown makeup

A clown takes the stage. People Clap. They leave.

A clown performing, engaged,
controls the stage,
juggles with talent endowed
then wins the crowd,
Bows accepting applause
that they have caused
Leaves inside of a car
built for a dwarf.

Woman in a bathtub reading

Wrong on the internet: Why I’m indifferent to immortalizing mistakes online

Having to say everything a particular way,
to be on-code, to speak according to the party line, to be complacent,
to have your every word tracked, considered,
scored, scrutinized--

This you,
people I barely know,
this you,
lackeys and pleasers,
this you,
those bored enough to be interested
in what I said years ago?

If we're lucky, we get 80 years
and I hope to develop a diamond core
that enables me to be unbroken
by the complaints of weaklings.

I don't travel through the valley of the shadow
nor the obviously alliterative willows;
I'm not the drunk, broke artist,
nor overtly sexual for its own sake--

but, if I were, I'd be no worse
because you can't force the words to behave
by simply putting them in neat rows,
dancing predictably,
harmonious like the movements
of the assembly line
where the same thoughts are assembled
by people who talk the same,
look the same,
all seeking unity with perfection,
imperfect
without the acknowledgement of wrinkles,
spots, bad hair days, missed shots,
sneezes, farts, illness,
problematic family members,
trauma of all sorts. Let's not acknowledge,
but pretend to be perfect and preach perfection,
till bombs fall and demagogues like whirlpools
grab gullible minds,
dragging them, uniting them in the deep,
but they're not cared for by the ocean
spare the food they provide.

An elder told me my proximity to tombstones
makes me immune to this living and I get closer
every day.

Before, they would just take you to a wall
and shoot you.
Now they operate on your throat and let you go
to sit among the snickering folks
who talk plenty but say nothing either

but you wouldn't know because there are so many.

'How can billions of people be wrong?', ask burning forests and
dull crops and full hospitals
and graveyards and meritless wealth distribution,
and the fevers, and the guns-- so many guns.

It's true I might not be great,
but certainly no worse.

Vultures fly over the bones
of opinionated people,
they peck at the dead flesh
of wordsmiths,
they sit on trees to look at the skulls
of satirists.
When the sun is at its peak,
you can smell artist legacies.
The museum is empty;
the stadium is full.
The Television holds on
to my zombie eyes (we're just passing
the time).

The vultures say we taste the same,
that our bones look alike
so let me say what I please.