Dishing

I.

Seafood squirms
until it’s raw. Carrots are
claustrophobic, so they
beat a bag of onions
into space. Oranges
are cut into acute
smiles. If apples
aren’t bruised, then
they’re cored. Celery
is a boat for wrinkly
grapes drowning in
buttered-up peanuts.

We’re stolen before
we land: plowed,
harvested, and
salivated over. Oh
well, you fell and
can’t be sold. Whatever
they think of us
is popped in their
cradle. Let it slime
down that glug
as ambivalent
sustenance.

You taste bad! Funny
when they spit
it out. Every burp
is a growl roaring
with laughter. Unlike
cops they imply. Come out
of your shell or be slurped!

I’ll never take a hint
from something spoiled.

II.

Gossip is all about
life—it’s not all life’s
about. Death is the only
perfection. If quarrel
is such a ghostly word,
then there must be danger
in the dinge. Life requires
that we be here.

Even so, gossipuppeteers
are at odds with the oddities.
Burdened by the brocolli
and the beasts, they scour
shrouded clouds into a waterfall
at least, something running
clear as infatuated fate.

Go ahead—be wary of my whereabouts.
You’ll hear only of my hereabouts.

I’m in until it’s outed me,
my home made out of reverie.