ODE TO SATURDAY’S GRAPEFRUIT                                                       

Your happy tongue a fat
planet eternally orbiting
the yellow-orange sun

of sweet luscious fruit. In love

with its juicy plump flesh

 

and how its ode-orous radiance

enters eager mouth’s cool cave

 

where you speak a lusty grinning

silence, a born-again tongue
your first language,

 

loose and fresh, new

as a white dwarf star.

Breakfast astronaut, strip off your space-suit

burst into pleasure,

free-float naked in your capsule

of citrus where gravity’s absence

 

titillates these taste buds,

lightens all flesh and linguistic

pretensions as it hijacks 

your rocket ship towards

 

an untraveled atmosphere,

seduces quite tasty

like hot hasty sex in the shower

at home far down on earth.

 

Now, you’re a high wire tightrope walker

in thin air married to pulp quite piquant,

a kitchen chair your net underneath:

your face fiercely amorous, eyes

 

sparkle with inhibitions unraveling,

as flying soars further, juices

flow greedily across your chin

like a crowd of kids’ fingers

 

cotton candy sticky, their laughter

goofy and loud

at a clown’s artful hijinks.

 

This long hunger for new worlds to traverse

fulfilled by what flows in-between
taste buds and citrus and

by these small oval seeds that

 

harbor chlorophyll--growing neurons

to flower your blooming bright brain, flourish  

galaxies of mushrooming desires.

Oh astronaut! Oh tightrope walker!

Let yourself languish and linger,
be astonished inside grapefruit's
pink succulence, this stellar ripening

this thin steel wire clear liquid gleaming

 

that’s nourished and grabbed you

star-struck for good.

taste its foreign fecundity,

savor its puckering liminality,

explore its other-world corporeality,

hear its tingling full-flavored poetry.

 

Yes my dear breakfast devotees

You wild devourers

of fresh tangy  

grapefruit

 

simmer and sizzle

sing if inspired

 

in this obscene solar system

under the big mesh canvas tent

 

inside your private Sputnik

of requited cravings

 

beguiled, beguiling

 

crooning and raving,

 

a true lunatic’s mooning,

 

all Saturday long!