Oranges

I love fruit. 

The apples, and bananas, oh and peaches.

Those are great.

But I enjoy eating an orange the most. 

I've been eating this particular orange for months now.

Months, and yet it still isn't overly ripe, rotten or whatever

other kinds of odd happenings happen to old fruit. 

The other day however, I was about to eat a piece,

when I realized that it was no longer an orange.

It had become a grapefruit.

I'm not sure if I like grapefruit.

Happy New Year

Raise your glasses brimmed
with the good wine from yesteryear
dark burnt-orange,
that tastes like fire.

It's burning the house down;
plaster spit spats, and the
paint melts and dribbles down the walls
like bile down a bulimic's chin,
puddling on the floor, a rainbow
of designer oil slick.

You retch and retch, throats smoldering,
engulfed in flames; but relishing
its age and class, toasting
skies the limit! Never
look back! We'll remodel
again, this year.

Happy New Year

I cast out my conscience hoping for a bite, a lick, a nibble.
Another year away we sit here, ice melting atop drinks and
synchronized eyes waiting for contracted stars to sweep them away.

The Ace lies asleep and the house in shambles,
Oh my Queen, your king is bent and twisted,
melted by mojito sweat.

Though soft, the couch cushion cannot
protect me from the Pop art bopping
from the innocent speakers.

TV's don’t brainwash people, sitcoms do.

Quiet on the set living rooms hush.

a hand model
polishing his nails,
rhymed ditties branding
the air with prices.

The couches corner reminds my head:
"your bed is in the other room."

As the apple drops my resolutions climb up my throat, begging to be heard.