Apocalypse #5 12/19
He hands me dried raspberries that have been soaked in
alcohol, I mistake them for goji
Cupboards open, swollen faded hot red fruit cascade against
cobalt Spanish tile
A lemon top-heavy cloud shifts from one end of the sky to a
spot above Nevada
The beehive-shaped fruit goes on the tongue, tastes like
dipped cordial oranges
He waves his hands in the air violently screaming about a
trip to the bank that went awry
The sun reaches that point where it bursts through the door
hysterical about the end times
He tells me the fruit is neither raspberry nor goji, laughs,
breaks a curtain rod on an anvil
I question the anvil about the Kyoto Protocols and ask the
not-raspberries for some scotch
Somewhere over Nevada it begins to rain sugar
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