Tiny Fruit:

Hollow hearts sculpt a similar fate

To the empty cosmos in which they relate.

The far-sighted skeptic who sees empty air

Is alone, a vacant lens and a murmuring prayer.

Curmudgeonly neighbors in the microcosm.


Taking trillions of hanging in the surrounding dust,

And all of the

Birthday Cake Sex

Wholesale Slaughter

Market Construction, Pocket-Wage Slavery,

All of the untold infinities of voices hoping to be heard,

Slice-of-the-pie joy that grows no thinner after being shared.


Pain pleading for sympathy,

And a handful of those who are able to feel them.

Our neighbors.

Like a draw-it-yourself circuit board connecting every particle together.

Hydrogen, Nitrogen, Oxygen, Carbon, and listless others periodically rustling in perpetual motion.


The breeze in your face is a revolution, an exodus

The draught in the corner, a whisper of things to come

The drops of rain on my shoulder in the bamboo forest seize my attention,

We could say these things are random, and dismiss deliberate infinities.

We could say all this space is empty to sight, and doom ourselves to sight

Neither near nor far.

We could see the world for empty pressure,

Or imagine the kaleidoscope particle shower we bathe ourselves in, every moment.

There is a moment when we stop flapping our arms in air we’re unable to grasp,

And the sweet-spot net we cast begins to yield Tiny Fruit.


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