I hear my footsteps beneath me
oceans of teeth smashing together
tearing at oranges, mashing their flesh
between molars of oyster's pearl
and it is solemn in its contempt for them,
it is the war of oranges and man--oranges and womankind
that we are fighting here.
My footsteps peter down the vacant walkways
deserts in my mind, a skull that is idle
but caught in a reverie of vanity
since it is only my footsteps that I hear,
since I am not even walking.

Chamber doors close beyond the cabinets and the pantry
I hear behind them, but only when they are shut,
the loud rumblings of parties the mice are having
and the cockroaches, so proud in their display of society,
have forgotten to send my invitation
so when I open the cabinets and I peer into the pantry,
there is nothing, nothing but cans of peaches and beans
and all around the atmosphere is the suffocation
of having been left uninvited, left to die
in my moseleum where my footsteps echo
bouncing off these chamber walls,

and the ghosts of oranges haunt me.

12/22/2007

Posted on 12/22/2007
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