Not if I’m the apple, not if I’m like the skin of the apple. Did you know I come from the rose family? Did you know my skin can be red or green?
Of course you did or not.
Newtonian development, chthonian settlement as history goes. Chuckleheads and churchwomen.
Like that noise it makes when you eat me. Like something or nothing at all.
Friend gave me a lucky coin but no luck came at all so I gave it back, imagine that. Now that I think about it I’m more like the skin of the apple tree. Rough and porous constructed stardust material. That’s what I want to be: rough and porous.
That’d give the pigfuckers something to think about.
The mockingbird was gawking again, maybe at the slow puffs of a Mr. Samuel E. Hickney pot-belly smoking tobacco from his pipe outside of his porch of his shack. Hickney was waitin’ on a visitor, on the other side of town from the windmill and the train station. The mockingbird was out of tune, or something like that. Hickney hadn’t been in his oak tub in a few weeks and the condensation on his personhood was noticeable. He sat propped up by his right boot in a chair, with a lantern on the table with that same damn moth bugging at the light. Hickney was waitin’ for his cousin, up there in the hills of Tennessee. Who knows if it was his real cousin or not, but what is for certain is the two were partners in crime. Hickney could hear the toot of the train in the distance. I’ll spare you the enunciation of what it sounded like, since most folks from around here have heard a train before. When it arrived it billowed out black smoke that could be seen from Hickney’s shack in the distance. Hickney moseyed across the towns shag dirt roads with a grin as wide as bottle of whiskey. Out of the black smoke stepped the counterpart to Mr. Hickney. He was lean and lanky, his skin was cured and smoked, and he returned Hickney’s grin with more of a friendly scowl. "I see that mockingbird won’t shut the hell up, again," said Jones. He drew their attention to the bird perched some stories above them on top of the church steeple. "Aw him, he ain’t bothering nobody, say what brings you out my way old friend, anyhow?" said Hickney. Jones ignored him. Something irked him about the eeriness of the turning of the windmill, its nearly silent squeak was nearly too silent. Hickney froze up, almost in panic, but nothing made a noise except for the windmill and that bird. And suddenly when it flew off it was like BAM! Hickney ducked for cover, believing to be in the midsts of an ambush. But ‘Ol Jones stood their smiling as the mockingbird fell from the steeple. "I got us a snack, and it sings too,” said Jones to Hickney, who was a little shaken. Jones picked the bird up by the legs and dragged it into Hickney’s shack to see what little meat they could get off of it (which wasn’t much.) Hickney broke out of his startled demeanor and asked Jones: "Now Jones, I know you is a ruffian, outlaw some may even say. I know you hunt for your meat, carry your water, chop your wood. But why on God’s green Earth would you want to lay waste to a pretty little song bird with barely any meat on it?" "Well Hickney, if you’re a song bird sometimes being a little out of tune can cost you your life," said Jones, "for me, being a little too slow on the revolver can me cost me my life. It’s all the same." "You know, Tim, one of these days it’s going to be the song bird that kills you, then you won’t be singing no more," said Hickney. Jones stared at Hickney indignantly until Hickney’s eyes widened. Jones sucked at a piece of meat between two bones and got one of the bones stuck in his tooth. He spat it on the floor. The silence was growing wary when Jones said, "You know Sam, you may just be damn right." To which he unexpectedly bellowed out in laughter, slapping his knee ‘til the point that Hickney felt uncomfortable for not joining in. That was all they said to each other for the rest of the night.
No one came to see ‘Ol Tim Jones exacerbated on his death bed. That is, except for Samuel E. Hickney, his childhood friend and partner in crime. And in Jones’ dying illusions he proposed to Hickney a theory of life and death which went something like this: "Imagine, just a second, there is a rich man, that lives in a mansion, near a farm, and when his family leaves he likes to play a game. He takes one of the family’s steeds and coats the bottoms of its hooves in red paint. Then he sets the horse free about the mansion, causing destruction in its path, but leaving a familiar footprint, which exceedingly fades away. And after giving the horse a head start the man begins to explore his giant house for the animal. And right when all the clues seem obvious, right when the trials seem to be waning away, right when everything seems to be coming together and starting to make some brilliant sense, the horse reveals itself, but with horns, and lays waste to its captor. And that’s life and death,” said ‘Ol Jones shortly before he died. Hickney wasn’t a man for words, didn’t speak much at all to be certain but he had this to say to Jones’ desperate story: "Fuck the rich man, his mansion, his games, and his horned steed, you’re dying as a dead man, Tim, and there ain’t no story that can solve that.” Those were their last words, but I can’t help but think that neither really knew what the other was talking about.
Look at him on his commute, on the train, hands in lap, hands folded together. Look at him with his gesturing glances, with his recognizable smiles.
He sees a fault in you. Look at him with his disgusting indignation, with his backwater snarl, with his coldwater stare. Look at him judging you, taking away from your personal fiber-based being, excavating a tomb of your mind for some personal fetish, carving away the carbon stardust material that makes up the lining of your soul. Look at him! You coward! You fiend! You freak! Look at him and enjoy! Look at him before you can call out “It’s too late!” into the dark streets of the city. Look at him and absorb! Look at him before he takes away everything you’ve ever worked for or wanted to work for in your entire life. Approach him and say "Good sir, why are you staring at me today?" so that he may reply "Why my boy, I’m not, you have been staring at me." Then sit back down in confusion.
I was killed by blunt force by one hand at least that’s what the paper seyz about me: “‘Ol Tim Jones Dead in a Strike” not like they had much to care not like they incited much at all. If it were me I would call for retaliation retribution revolution. But no, ‘Ol Jones soul will float in fading insecurity for the life I lost on Earth due to my absurdity.