White Apple

the speaker in this
scene is a woman who lives
in a house in the center of
the desert with a tilted doorframe
and a turntable stuck on
repeat (Hall & Oates for days) and
adjacent to a wall papered with
clocks that have no face, a little
wooden bar where she serves all the
locals the same home-brewed
pilsner out of
rusted old
spittoon cups

ladies and gentlemen, may i
have your attention, please, we
have eaten our vegetables and
tied our shoelaces but still the
politicians of the world have blown up
our dreams like busted battleships and
it is not safe to believe what we
read in the news ‘cause it’s no longer true
that thunder only happens when it
rains so from now on we’ll
be learning from this
book instead *waves a stack of
maroon pages like a beating heart*
while we gather ‘round this
bar, the great keeper of truth, the
story of the white apple tree:

in the beginning there were
three original things, a
horse, a magnolia tree, and
two flying fish that
swam above a house
in the center of the
desert, this house, the
first original thing

now, there is always confusion about
what comes first but the thinking mind, the
ordering mind ain’t everything and that you
need to remember—that’s the part of your
mind that accepts all the lies and the
should’s and the shouln’ts and the have-to’s—but
the artist in you has a power your
thinking mind can’t comprehend
so you have to give yourself the freedom
to have fantasies, child, to play, that’s your soul
brewing magic according to a formula
you’ll never know *sips pilsner and flips her
long gray hair*

the day it all happened was a day like
any other, but i had a hard time believing it
the way the wind kissed the shutters and i was
waking up on a pillow full of sand, those
two crazy fish spinning like stars, making
coral streams up through the clouds (that was
the first original stairway to heaven, or so
it is written) and next thing i know a
white apple tree a mile high has
taken root in my backyard, now everybody
knows white apple trees don’t grow in
deserts and the sun was riding
high like a diamond and the air stuck
in my lungs like a rope and out i went
with my axe to chop that sucker to bits
until i stopped dead on hearing this
voice beneath it’s shadow and swore
one of those apples must’ve knocked
me in the head and the sands lit up like
a sea of coins and it said to me this:

there’s a voice that whispers
through your voice
pay attention to it
that’s the soul of the world
singing in your veins
there’s a rhythm to it, to everything
you think, to every sentence your
eyes finish for you, and that’s your
soul giving you the cue, the beat that
taps you in to the great walk of life
*voice grabs me by the hand and
tucks me under its shadow*
this place ain’t made of sand, look again,
it’s a house of music and you’re the
queen, the gold dust woman, the
greatest job you’ll ever have is to
shatter your illusions, to see without
seeing, that’s where the magic hides
in the backs of the eyes

*woman closes maroon folio
without having turned a page
and the room falls silent*

it is your duty to write
the history of the images
that come to you in dreams

35 thoughts on “White Apple

  1. A rumor has been swirling around your first novel for several weeks. There was word that you would be finishing the book any day now and had already handed out chapters to read. There was gossip that the novel was actually nonexistent, that it was all talk. Finally, the magazine ‘Zwörms’ announced imminent publication—which it should not have done because the tasty morsel was ultimately snatched away from hungry mouths. Agile publishers are ever more apt to poach fashionable authors from the lumbering magazines these days, with groundbreaking pledges of large fees and unprecedented exposure. Sometimes they’re even telling the truth. 🙂

    Liked by 3 people

      1. Nothing special, believe me… Just a simple Bœuf bourguignon avec escargots et jambon persillé, and a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape… Dommage que vous ne puissiez pas être ici! 😦

        Liked by 1 person

      2. Forget it. Paufler refuse de révéler sa célèbre recette de foie gras d’oie. Est la chose la plus importante pour lui après l’amour … Sorry 😦

        Liked by 1 person

      1. Si je dois aller au combat, je devrais regarder le reste du mon matériel de soldat à l’avant… Voici ma grosse erreur: je subis le vice français, je veux toujours avoir raison, mais vous m’a ému profondément et ça a fait trembler mon cœur. Je suis désolé d’avoir rejeté votre offre des 5 poulets, les spaghettis et les boulettes de viande, allors pour vous montrer mon admiration sans bornes pour votre talent, votre sensibilité exquise et votre beauté indescriptible, voici la recette que je souhaite.

        INGRÉDIENTS / pour 4 personnes:
        1 kg de foie gras d’oie.
        sel, poivre
        muscade
        PRÉPARATION:
        1.- Après avoir paré le foie gras (fiel et vaisseaux enlevés sans ménagement jusqu’au plus profond du foie), saler et poivrer de toutes parts. Ajouter la muscade.
        2.- Placer dans un moule à cake (en verre de préférence) et faire cuire la terrine de foie gras au bain-marie 1 heure à 100°C. Vous réglerez votre temps de cuisson la fois suivante en fonction de votre goût personnel.
        3.- Laisser refroidir une nuit avec une planchette de bois posée sur le foie, avec 3-4 boîtes de conserve posées sur la planchette pour exercer une pression et chasser la graisse et l’air contenus dans la terrine de foie gras.
        POUR FINIR
        Placer au réfrigérateur une journée.
        Attendre au moins 3 ou 4 jours pour consommer.

        Bon appétit! 🙂

        Liked by 1 person

      2. Ah, mon coeur est plein! Et avec les cinq poulets, préparez-vous un délicieux coq au vin! J’ai pensé, un instant, que je devrais peut-être demander à JP de vous convaincre. Mais vous êtes très généreux. Merci beaucoup.

        Liked by 1 person

      3. Rien de tel que de pouvoir échanger 5 poulets americáins pour le foie d’un oiseau palmipèd français… Et cela est possible –louange à la gastronomie!– grâce à votre générosité sans limites, jeune et belle poète. Je ne l’oublierai jamais! 🙂

        Liked by 1 person

  2. Il faut que sur le sol votre pied d’oiseau se lève.
    Marcher au lieu de voler: le temps n’est pas encore venu;
    Enferme dans ton coeur le trésor harmonieux;
    Que votre harpe un instant se détende et se repose.

    À bientôt! 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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