Here I am at dawn, against the bed frame
The air is tense and unfriendly
on the way to dreaming streetscape
I drink some water which spills on my face
and splashes to have wet everything and to sink
In. The streets look for fatigue, or me. Dead
as I am, there are things left unsaid, it's
draining. Draining on me. I sleep
through it, them, as
my pillow sipped on my drool now
17 years almost ago, and the man dreaming
enters a familiar world alone, & telling.
Who would have thought that I'd be here, nothing
bothers me, everything
seems so serene and peaceful, even the
Painful memories incessantly gnawing.
Up in the sky, does the moon grow fragile, now
more than ever before?
Not that banana, loose in the pocket of a coat
eyes penetrating the darkness carefully
& yet in blissful unawareness. Not that terminal, fragile teen, who was
going to have to go, careening into that banana peel so.
To slip, & fall, how far could a banana imagine
so to go. Not that fruit seller who from very first meeting
I would never & never buy fruit from again, that made the banana
into the monster it became. I was injured & so demanded
To have that fruit seller become my slave to serve me & who will never leave me, not for apples, nor oranges,
nor even for another fruit stand which is
Only our human lot & means to make money. No, not yet.
There's a song, "Make Poop", but no, I won't do that
I am a banana. When will I die? I will never die. I will live
To be ingested, & I will never go away, & you will never escape from me
who am always & only a fruit, despite this peeling. Spirit
Who lives only to make hilarity ensue.
I'm only rotten, & I am spoiled, & I didn't asked to be eaten,
but I was.
I came into your life to cause bowel movements,
and I did!
And the one being punished is your toilet.
No toilet paper & no Febreeze. Fortunate fate, nevertheless
I recycle into the ground
The world's essence is saved yet once again.