Meditative practices. And eating.

This is one of my favorite poems of all time:

The Orange

by Benjamin Rosenbaum

An orange ruled the world.

It was an unexpected thing, the temporary abdication of Heavenly Providence, entrusting the whole matter to a simple orange.

The orange, in a grove in Florida, humbly accepted the honor. The other oranges, the birds, and the men in their tractors wept with joy; the tractors' motors rumbled hymns of praise.

Airplane pilots passing over would circle the grove and tell their passengers, "Below us is the grove where the orange who rules the world grows on a simple branch." And the passengers would be silent with awe.

The governor of Florida declared every day a holiday. On summer afternoons the Dalai Lama would come to the grove and sit with the orange, and talk about life.

When the time came for the orange to be picked, none of the migrant workers would do it: they went on strike. The foremen wept. The other oranges swore they would turn sour. But the orange who ruled the world said, "No, my friends; it is time."

Finally a man from Chicago, with a heart as windy and cold as Lake Michigan in wintertime, was brought in. He put down his briefcase, climbed up on a ladder, and picked the orange. The birds were silent and the clouds had gone away. The orange thanked the man from Chicago.

They say that when the orange went through the national produce processing and distribution system, certain machines turned to gold, truck drivers had epiphanies, aging rural store managers called their estranged lesbian daughters on Wall Street and all was forgiven.

I bought the orange who ruled the world for 39 cents at Safeway three days ago, and for three days he sat in my fruit basket and was my teacher. Today, he told me, "it is time," and I ate him.

Now we are on our own again.



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Photo by Jillian Tamaki


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reflections of salty seas and jellyfish and anonymity of past lives.

i was brushing my teeth when i saw your soul. i stood barefoot at your bathroom sink, leaning on the tile edge as you walked up the stairs.

"you know, i can see your soul sometimes," i said.

"oh yeah?" you said. "what's it look like?"

it was the end of the night and you shuffled across the carpet towards me. i was drunk.

"mmm..." i spat. "it's more of a rhythm actually, i think."

"a rhythm?" you said.

"yeah. so i guess it's something i can hear. it's a nice rhythm. soothing--something i'd very much enjoy waking up slowly to. but also many something with dancing potential, but not like hip hop or electronic or anything. like, floating in a waltz, making giant shapes across the room."

you were brushing your teeth now, with that awful organic toothpaste. the dark of night calls for clean mouths. you stared at my reflection, watching me fumble words. you had a foamy grin.

you have such perfect teeth. they're already so white, aligned with immaculate precision. slightly narrow. delicate, but sturdy. charming. they could slice through flesh.

you probably don't even need to be brushing them.

"do you floss ever?"

"what?" you said.

"oh, i was just noticing your soul's teeth."

we fell asleep some time later with our hands intertwined.


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what grounds my faith is not that which grounds my reason

and so it is impossible, then, to believe something and to know it too.

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