Ready to Peel

Remember, ya can't step on a banana peel if you smoke it. I leave with a poem and a picture.

The Origin of the Moon

A fissure has opened

in Vito’s head. It has
funneled to the skull.
Gnaw marks scar
the bleaching bone.
The running hole
is filthy with roots.

Slanted to the crown’s

left, it draws his left
eye to constantly strain
in search of the self.
The right one moves
erratically, as in dream
sleep, confused by
information splits
causing a serious
navigational problem.

A violent typhoon roars

in Vito’s brain, skewing
his thoughts in circles.
Calm central communications
never make sense. Vito’s feet,
blindly confident, search
for ground. Each watery step
turns his ankles as brain wind
pushes against a soft outlet.

A tumorous membrane,

forming balloon-like from
a frothy sore, rapidly inflates,
resting yellow & fragile
on a cushion of hair.

A cemetery has pulled Vito in.

He walks among the graves
like a mourning relative. Light fades
as the sun droops. Granite heated
tombstones buffer against night air.
Vito rests at one, his fingers searching
for a date, the sun finally gone,
replaced by twinkles.

Body fluids have shifted toward

the tumor. Vito grabs it & pulls.
It pops free & rolls into space,
reflecting the sun. Vito feels
the slimy hair, his eyes
relaxed, asleep.

Vito awakens cold.

Heat has left the stones.
The tumor, a sick harvest moon,
undulates uncertainly beneath the stars.
Vito shakes off the dew, his arms
slinging round his torso,
thankful for even a cold rest,
though he worries the magnitude
of a new heavenly order.

“All telescopes will turn this way,”

he says to himself. “I will
learn of tides, maybe get a talk show.
I’m sure this is not the end of
salvation, mythology, or television.”