Danger Noodle, or The Eyes of Eva Ross

Nothing is what it seems.

You stared at the solar

eclipse for twenty minutes,

orbs of blue as

naked as your birth,

their flame like forming stars,

ogling the mantle moon,

its 8 ball in the pocket of the sky,

brag your vision

has never been better

ever since:

I see right through the veils—

the course

of human veins, their rush of

ash & lava, the burn

that guards our love

and fear of death.

You pluck the waning petals

like they’re limbs,

jutting beneath the

bricks of Al Qarara,

spurting tabasco

in your bowl of mushroom

rice—the blood of over

half the Sudanese;

the Million MAGA

March, counting just

a thousand—you deigned

to call them “maggots”—

it’s an affront to every fly;

and the snake

at the base of the tree?

It’s just the feign

of a coiled root, or a worm with

weighty airs, unable

to seed your fall

from paradise.

Andreas Gripp

October 6, 2025

RF Image