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I'm thinking of bright red tomatoes
as large as boxing gloves. It's how

certain foods hit you in the face, c

louding your mind, but I don't even
like tomatoes. There's a film titled
Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit.

I wonder what it is about, but hav

e no plans to watch it unless the o

pportunity sparks, of course. Why

do tomboys stop being tomboys w

hen their breasts fit into large cup

s? This is not a joker's scripted pa

lette. Liam said that he loves pine

trees. We are both from small tow

ns. He loves the way certain fore

sts in small towns appear mysteri

ous & ominous. We are both from

small towns where bright red tom

atoes are likely grown, where fath

ers raise their sons to think that th

ey should be boxers, where "home
cooking" has more meanings than

food. I should be sleeping tight, bu

t I feel over-anxious, thinking of m

etaphors that would fit into poems

that I may or may not write, or fil

ms that I would love to create wit

h surreal production sets, & who r

eally cares when one scratches on

eself? It always seems to be a pul
p topic. If my father or mother ha

d of been artists, I would have like
ly wound my watches too tightly &

dedicated all of my time to seekin

g the visual acuity of conventional

importances. I am an early mornin
g rush, a batter of sentimental dra
ma, turning the tables, breaking w

aves before breaking the Adirond

ack chairs on the beach in front of

the breaking waves where I will li
kely sit if I ever visit Hawaii. Nev
er keep yourself apart from your r
oots; it will be like trying to do a cr

ossword puzzle with itchy eyes.