Tuesday, July 14, 2015

WHY THE ARTIST WAS ALWAYS STARVING

When he stopped to think about it—just for a little,
the total situation 

evidenced by—
the skin

of that silly little mango 
steeped in the long shadow 

of the furtive 
and furrowing memory 

that stained
his depressed kitchen table,

was not really all that fantastic 
metaphor for progression.

Although—certainly!

the thing
appeared to be green—turning

yellow—and then? that perfect kind of 
orange that seems 

pink—but because it's been secretly
dreaming to be scarlet;

really, no it couldn't be any 
one of those colors—at all,

because—as he saw it
there in that moment,

any great mango—

ought to display
each of them equally—all at once; 

and besides, 
he thought

if it was truly great—no wait, actually literally
none of them at all!

because someone
very much like himself—would have come 

along and likely
devoured it 

several hours ago now. And that skin?
It wouldn't have become anything

other than—shredded to an ugly pulp
and blotted out

with sweltering dark 
coffee grounds in the garbage.

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