so of course i must mention it’s shape, some sweet moon or toothy smile nestled between loaves of peanut butter.  about the artificial flavor, we devolve into capitalism.  marx would be proud.  though i have never seen one, i dream of the Gros Michel, the Panama disease, the Chiquita-industrial complex.   it is easy to speak of nature as its own kind of civilization.  look, haven’t we all had our skin spoiled at the hands of a clumsy lover?  and there is no textbook for this: wilt.  bruise.   we learn in retrospective, mini-series.  sometimes it is hard to come to terms with an architecture of violence.  soft folds or marble.  the sweet stench of flesh, a taste we have developed for space or boats or other unlearnables.