Neon Fruit

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One day, ham came out of my nose. I was six; my sister was three. Like so many arbitrary rules of childhood, we weren’t allowed to eat in the living room — that’s where the TV was. But we had a solution. To view the shrunken picture of our ancient TV with the broken vacuum tube, we would slide our folding tables and pint-sized chairs to the very edge of the kitchen, where the linoleum floor bordered the wood parquet of the living room. On this day, we were eating rolled slices of sandwich-grade ham. Sesame Street was on and the Count said something funny, appealing to my arithmomania, and I laughed with a mouth full of unnaturally pink ham. Seconds later, it was coming out of my nose. Now, writing from my apartment in New York City, I have dinner on my couch in the living room and no longer eat ham.

There are two cats that like to help.  Thandi is fat, black, and furry.  She is growing out her summer lion cut and working towards a trim mid-section.

Chester is gray, skinny, and demanding.  He chatters at the fire escape mourning doves and enjoys being squirted with water.

I’m all lost in the supermarket
I can no longer shop happily
I came in here for that special offer
A guaranteed personality
–The Clash

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!
-–Allen Ginsberg

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