ode to the cantaloupe

ode to the cantaloupe

pastel orange,


dull luminescence of lamplight

at twilight. bulbous moon, i split


your side as the fragrant musk

of melon assails my nostrils,


erotic and despotic,

each bite an infectious kiss,


plague devoid of deliverance

you strangle me

with vines of succulence


swallowing piece after piece,

unwilling to settle

until my spoon shovels down


to your green scalp.





sand granules descend

with strained elegance : little antelopes

on the mind’s chaparral,


shimmying around elephant skeletons.


time– the gangly calf with his nose

in the grass, a shadow,


substrate of flame

in the blazing mind.

the loneliest uncracked egg in the world

the loneliest uncracked egg in the world

the groceries are sorted on the tabletop

balkanized into kitchen regiments

meat sliced in uniform cuts on the chopping

board, fruit swelling with ripe passion rising

in the bowl, as small flies cling to their flesh.

green vegetables in all of their assorted colors,

almost sauteed in the heat of their fury,

lugubrious bread loaves molding

with righteous indignation.  for we know

how the food factions despise one another;

all except the egg, the loneliest uncracked

egg in the world. he perches

on the counter’s ledge in solitary longing,

dejected and cast away from the irrational

animosity of the other food groups. the last

lingering soul of the dozen, he teeters at the edge

and twirling he descends with aspirations

of death, but on the floor he bounces and rolls

away to the shadowy corners untouched

by the light of the refrigerator door.

man running toward departing train must have finally realized he loves her

man running toward departing train must have finally realized he loves her

and not the passengers with their eyes immersed

in their cellphones and newspapers desperately

endeavoring to understand

the relationship between parliamentary

elections in malta and the stock market,

and not the solitary old woman in the back

who speaks to herself as if her cluttered mind

were truly the loving ear of her late husband,

but the exquisite splendor

of the train itself, the immaculate grace

of wheels clicking on titanium tracks

as it skirts past skyscrapers, the windows

smudged with the greasy fingers

of children and madmen,

the automatic doors that shutter close

as if to protect a succulent fruit,

the accumulating reverberation

of industrial sound

as it rolls into the distance.


the promise

Image result for lighthouse paintings

the promise

seagulls descend into the sinking surf

as daylight enfolds itself in the cloak

of night, all across the island, havoc

reigns, turtles drowning in the rising

tide, plant roots shriveling as the sun

smolders vegetation. the punctured

stratosphere crucified from chemicals

as layers of the firmament topple and

the sun’s very fingers squeeze our faces

in the merciless fashion of a zealous aunt.


despite this, sailboats trek out

from the harbor, young pilots refusing

to hold to the tiring safety of tried shores,

hoping to find the whale of whom

their grandfathers told stories,


a tremendous fish which would sometimes

wash up on beaches, gasping on the hot

sand as the people would swarm around

snapping pictures with their cellphones

as the great beasts flopped their fins

gasping for water, while the crowd

would jostle, elbowing each other

for the perfect shot. but such tales


are myths, stories told in schoolbooks

to make boys dream of things bigger

than themselves, to imagine

a hospitable world.

after a long day,

the boys return with nothing

but bleached kelp, stuck to the sides

of their vessel. their hearts still

ensnared in the abyss’s net, clinging

to the hope that some animal remains


in the depths of the ocean. they dream

of a leviathan that lurks in the lifeless

water, hungering to know that somewhere

even a little fish might exist.

fairy tale

fairy tale

it is late spring, the petals are steadily drying,

the dry months fly ahead on  buzzard wings,


we’re acutely aware of the verdancy’s dying,

amid the falling flowers a woman paces


in her pink robe, a poet without words,

bees toddle, their legs splotched with pollen


as they flutter from one stamen to another,

intoxicated with the nectar of being,


while the woman sings of unkept promises,

cold coffee, stale toast, and dreams


of unbuttered things, away from false fealty,

she stretches her arms laterally, and bends


one leg back like a heron, her knee twitching,

balancing beneath the blue sky, tongue protruding


from thin cheeks, humming as if she is an airplane

soaring with no destination in mind,


until she crashes in the brambly bushes,

and arises, wearing a crown of twigs and briers.


-painting by Edward Vuillard