By L. S. KLATT
You don’t fall far from the tree. Is that because you are adamant? In Adam’s fall/ we fell all, bruised? Software? What keeps us processing even if besotted? Knowledge? What’s the big idea? Is it my soul in your interface? Me? Little i? My jot is a worm, my dot a wormhole. This hole attend/ my life to mend, for out of the chip the graphics grow? Or by trusting type, may I increase the font? No. The № 1 product of malfeasance is mindset. Folded. Blindfolded. “How do I know what I know?” I’m glad you asked; I’ll get to that. Consider the letters which serve the ready finding. They do not sow; they migrate. Yet always return to the same place. A is for Apple. No one has ever hated candy flesh. Touch, & touch again, the corporation.
New poems from L. S. Klatt have appeared or will appear in Birmingham Poetry Review, Copper Nickel, Carolina Quarterly, Crazyhorse, and Denver Quarterly. His collection of prose poems, The Wilderness After Which, is due out from Otis Books (Seismicity Editions) in 2017.
Listen to L. S. Klatt and Oliver de la Paz discuss “Apples” on our podcast, Contributors in Conversation.
