Paper burns in quick gasps. I saw yuppies self-immolate the day that Melon-Man handed out their last free melon. But if I am in a room still full of melons and the melons aren't running like those folks in basements on the news, then why don't I see them? If it's not the melons speaking to me in my head, telling me all the places I know they'd rather be, then why aren't I joining in their melon pile now? If we could paint, all together, with melon juice and seed and release outward an unborn lifelessness into strident, impressionist rare, new, weird, blue figures, then why haven't I built a canvas for us? Is it safer just to be a cantaloupe, to be weird, to bounce in and out of beautiful authentic fruit salads, and just leave like an anecdote or an eccentric zucchini out of a 90s New York piss-comedians apartment? Am I really a cantaloupe with an anecdote stapled onto it that says nothing of the gaseous orange rolling in me? When finally in their garden, learning that every missed phone call was cold-designed to be answered, and gloriously I am wilted, barfing gaseous orange, grasping at rotting, through the howling ephemeral. Will I last on, tortured in the ulcer, wishing I didn't recognize that younger melon? Looking back at them, I can't tell which one of us is dry crying, if either at all. I can't tell which melon holds the pillow over the sleeping one. And wilI I, in splints of everlasting reflective shards stabbing, stare blankly contorted backward? And will I continue to write endless stupid dystopic coming-of-age stories, to make up for the melons I still am never really getting to know?
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