Bonus bonus round. This one doesn’t use anaphora; I wrote it at a workshop earlier this evening, then revised it slightly when I got home…
Pineapple, O Pineapple—
how does a hive of starfish
tossing streamers into the air,
a misshapen pyramid
of happy stars
wildly cheering the blockbuster,
reconcile itself to its future
as a raw ingredient for a Hawaiian pizza?
Such molten canary fruit goodness—
clever enough to masquerade
as an unlit Molotov cocktail
of dried chunky tuna bits
clad in the armor
of an armadillo-crocodile hybrid—
deserves better, wouldn’t you say?
I’d say you are an artist—
an undiscovered surrealist
embodying that which you would portray:
the shredder stuffed to the gills,
splitting in all directions at once
but holding its shape;
the blender whose contents
have frozen mid-swirl;
the pencil holder operating
according to the laws of quantum physics,
warping and stretching each instrument
into the shape of its favorite word.
you’re a new form of planet:
continents and islands glomming together
with nowhere to go but up,
rivulets of beaten path
intersecting down the vessel,
its atmosphere patterned wallpaper
smothering the helpless jar
as its stars struggle to escape.
you are who you are—
whoever you are.
Does it matter?
You’re still delicious!
(3 October 2017)