Tag Archives: avocado

Avocadode

O dear, sweet Avocado. Who was I before I met your plump lips? Your voluptuous green meat, hidden from my world by your blackened shell. Where once I found you disgusting, revolting without reason, I am forever grateful for the day that my heart let you in, and I was deemed worthy of your sweet ecstasy. How could I have expected that the more rotten your exterior appears, the more luscious, juicy, and bright you are within? How could I have lived so long without your nourishment, and your significant contribution of Vitamin B6 to my diet, bringing my dreams to more vivid life and attempting to soothe my Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder? You bring focus into my life, Avocado, and you bring life into my dreams, and so it would stand to reason that it is you who bring my dreams to life. They call you climacteric, because you ripen off the tree, but I believe it is because you are a climax in and of yourself. A delicious, creamy green climax.

I love you so much that I don’t even care if your name means “testicle” in the Nahuatl Aztec tongue, because, to be honest with you, Avocado, I might even go gay if you asked me to.

Not that, you know, I’m gay or anything. I just really like avocados. The fruits, I mean.

(Although, technically, they’re berries. No, seriously.)

Burrito Sonnet #1

Our love is like a burrito, tightly
wrapped and warm and sometimes much too filling
(not uncomfortably so) or slightly
messy, sometimes sloppy, often dripping

with a liquid mélange of every food
group represented — the fluffy brown rice
with mildly spiced salsa and a good
chunk of meat, not-too-sour cream, a nice

spoonful of Aztesticles, beans and cheese.
A savory medley united by one
massive, impassioned consumption that frees
that flavorful drive. As it spills and runs

through your body, its tastes fill your being
with pleasures that make for a life worth living.

Spiral (Elegy)

A
vo
cado
true berry
not grown in Freehold
not fed at our funeral homes
not served patiently to Jersey Shore trauma victims

death
is
one word
five letters
final and complete
most people say life is better
but most of those people haven’t died yet

if
you
died now
I could say
“she was in my blood”
and I could pause knowing I lost
move on to the next aspect of myself and love, buy
a
vo
cados
grown here in
California
pretend that it was choice-less, chance
that led to this grave state, buried feelings, mourning words

but
no
I chose
I moved here
I left you alone
to grieve or live or die alone
to walk up silent and kneel before your boxed-up loss
kneel
pray
alone
stand up slow
console those closest
though we were close enough ourselves
I left you to that today while I, here, was eating
a
vo
cados
like apples
or fresh tomatoes
or the raspberries by the shed
at the old house, the one we used to live in, before