note from a kitchen in a remote corner of the martian colony

three flies are feasting on an over-ripened orange. white mold disseminating outward from its navel, a stark contrast to the bananas, which are bursting fluorescent yellow. the phrase in art is called “still life”, nothing happens, but it is still life, and thus capable of the subtle beauty of being. we’re all existing in a state of decay, tired feet shuffling to the grave. time and nature do that to us all, but one cannot help but wonder about the idea of redemption. sometimes if you listen closely you can hear a redbird singing a ditty so riveting you forget how to distinguish dawn from nightfall.

so many moons ago you

too were singing green in seas

of moonlight dreaming

the fruit basket upon the countertop remains unmoved in the motionless moment. you are a secondary character in…