“Mangoes, get your fresh mangoes!”
The boy salesman cried out to the world
Like a vendor selling hot dogs at Fenway.
Far from the Green Monster and Pesky’s Pole,
Two lovers walked under the shade of palm trees
Their feet warmed by uncountable grains of sand
That surfed to their rest along the windward coast.

“A mango smoothie will have to wait for later,”
He commented, with grains of sand
Still left to sift between their toes.
The prevailing breeze cooled them
Into a steady pace for a long walk
That could only be measured by not
Arriving at where they don’t need to be.

“Mangoes, get your fresh mangoes!”
The boy salesman cried louder,
A few rows closer in the bleachers
Already past the fans having a pissah
With Southie pals wandering Yawkey Ave
Forgetting the name of the rookie catcher
Called-up from Pawtucket last night.

“Maybe after a burger at Kailua Kona”
She commented, low blood sugar crabs
Beginning to crawl out of hiding
In holes bored through the soft mud
Being licked by the cool blue Pacific
Like a sailor lost at sea wanting to feel
The familiar firmness of any coastline.

“Mangoes, get your fresh Mangoes!”
The boy salesman cried at the end of the row.
He dug into his pocket for two dollars, one
For the mango, one to thank the boy
And watched his retreat back up the steps
A smile wider than the crescent creeping up
Over the horizon to welcome the two lovers.

“Let’s open it and share it now, why not?”
He kissed her on the cheek, pulling her close
No need to wait any longer, the moon smiled.
With a fingernail he gently traced a seam
Around the skin to open the fruit up
Releasing the fresh aroma of juices, then
Slid his finger into the soft flesh to find the seed.

{From the archives, 2014}

Angel’s Honey Dust

one feather falls
from the angel’s wing
into my open palm
I dip it in honey dust
and brush her breast
a sweet taste
lips discover
on soft skin

for the first time
a new spirit
rises from
delicious oils
one breath
ignites a womb

We drink this delicate nectar

We hear music of bird and bard

We rejoice the sacred bond

dancing with angels
in deep rhythm
richer than azure
constellations rise
from the mendacity
of earthbound life
to love wholly
this Woman

born from dust
a dream of life
lit by chosen stars
and created
in tender union

A companion to Angel’s Metamorphosis:

image: Michael Parkes

the last match

in my hand
i hold a match
the last match
from the box
dare me to light it
see what will burn

your soft lips
surround my dare
contain the fire
inside and invite
residual heat

into a room
once cold
into a room
once hidden
behind a curtain
slide aside

open the door
discover all
the other matches
waiting to be lit

Words Dance and Play

And danced and played
My words will be yours
To melt inside you
Saturate you, ’til dripping
You ask me to fill up the space
Hollowed and crying with want

Image: not sure… help me get reference!?

Swimming in Pathos

She lays her body down along the sand, interrupting the horizon
With her soft waves that break me to pieces, I want to ride them
To shore
From depths where I drown my body looking for relief
From desire
From want of stillness in the chaos of screams
From greed
From ambition where I drown the meaning of my words
From lusts who aimlessly dance about in the surf
Like Aphrodites threatening me with their births

This one, though, stood naked and formed, heralded by angels
Hovering about the clamshell she rode, herself a mainline
To shore
She invites me to collect my pieces, casting out her fishing net
Like a prophet.
One by one, I stab them with calculated thrusts of my spear
Putting each piece back together in webbing spun from the silk
Of her hair: my mind, my heart, my spirit, my body, my soul.
At first they flop about like temperamental children wanting attention
Until twilight when I lie naked before her asking to be healed.

Art: The Birth of Venus, Sandro Botticelli