Welcome to Plan-A

Home of John Gonzalez's Pixelated Decompositions

You miss the garden
because you want a small fig
from a random tree.
You don't meet
the beautiful woman.
You're joking with an old crone.

It makes me want to cry
how she detains you,
stinking-mouthed, with a hundred
talons, putting her head
over the roof edge to call down,
tasteless fig, fold over fold, empty
as dry-rotten garlic.

She has you by the belt,
even though there's no flower
and no milk inside her body.

Death will open your eyes
to what her face really is. Leather spine
of a black lizard.

No more advice.