Up into the apple tree.
Is the apple an apple?
Or, is every apple one of that apple?
each.
this.
that.
Apple.
They make you think you’re smart
when they put it out of your mind.
(Does this poem make you sleepy?)
Truly, when you bite,
the apple dissolves,
into flesh, into body,
to be released
back towards the sun,
resting inside the earth,
food for worms,
everywhere
nowhere
each that this.
Who cares.
The all is everywhere.
Always.
Even apples.
Seeds scatter DNA.
Only God knows where
you are, who you be.
(Punctuated poems sell.)
The earth is your ground,
and you feed her body
when you feed your mouth:
Drugs
Government mandates.
Nanotech bots.
Twinkies.
apples.
You are the belly of the the earth.
What are you cooking up today?
Serving up tweets on your iPhone?
looking good,
looking smart,
maybe make some money,
maybe not.
maybe just sex.
How much pleasure does poison give you?
Did the sex wake you up?
Did you feel it?
Imagine digestive systems
running on porn and greed
and mirror mirror on the wall:
what does that earth feed?
Earthworms?
Rodents?
Or, is it devils?
No mouse can harvest that.
Each of the rats go mad,
each of the rats thinks its alone,
living inside the train tracks,
bugs inside its CPU,
whittling away,
whittling,
wit.
So much cleverness in technology
children create their own nightmares,
the dead are still walking:
oh, and their kisses:
those are superunnatural
and good for pin-ups
and fashion statements:
they own your ass
and make it look pretty.
so back to the worms,
this one, and that one (the devil doesn’t care),
slimy things,
children learn to say “yuck”.
but they all choke on glyphosate.
out of sight,
out of their mind
inedible.
Who would ever find out
that there’s no apple
without the worms,
no life without the earth,
and that the devil spits
their ashes, ashes to the wind,
as they all fall down?
Soul in the machine 