Purply Lemons

notice a looking man, maybe lonely, eating some purpley lemons,
sitting at a writing desk bench.
I observe.
The sheen of the plastic-finished desk is a light brown.
Its scratches are 50 years of scribbles and carvings to a loud noise rock solo.
It sucks.

It seems he's colored his lemons using some frustrating dyeing process.
He perhaps loves flowers.
He perhaps dislikes yellow things. His hatreds are perhaps rerouted with dye.
His hair: it looks the color of dusty red stained glass!
Perhaps this haircut, perhaps this lemon: these are his altars!

he prays to the sour fruits borne from bushes,
he colors his golden calves purple,
he purposes idolatry towards reverse idolatry!

Preparing to kill him:
I draw him a picture of a lemon.
I draw him a crystal calf and his creator--some jackass artist.
I wrote him a note,
"I see that you like idolatry and disgusting chemicals.
You select ugly writing-desks on purpose and you like unnatural food.
You're a nasty plebeian. You hate yellow.
You've got an anti-intellectualist agenda!"

I walk to his place at the table,
and offer him these observations.

As he considers the materials, I see a kinky orange smile emerge on his lips.
He turns his head as slowly as a noble owl.
Although he can't reach even 180 degrees--
He smiles. Crows feet betray his weakness.

He says,
"I see you're a very perceptive kinda guy!
It's not everyday I meet someone so willing to share
their most vulnerable thoughts!
pause.
Would you eat a purple lemon?"

I accept.