Encouraging Fruit

They silently stared at the last two mangos while standing side-by-side. Both of them were regulars at the organic market but today was the first time their paths coalesced.
“Have you recently feasted on these feisty fruits?”
“Happy to confess—guilty as charged!” while raising both hands in a surrendering gesture.
“And what was your recollection, if I may impinge on your fortuitous indictment?”
“Well, it was just last week, so it’s relatively fresh in my …” poking their forehead with a rigid index finger, “frontal cortex. Pre-med wannabe. Art school tragedy. Anyways, this may resonate as hyperbole, but the sweetness of the pulp was transcendentally sopping!”
Nodding in agreement while gently caressing the mango’s facade, “Should be ripe in three summer moons.”
“My natal day, how intoxicating!” Reaching for the last remaining delicacy, “This beauty has beguiled me from the get-go.”
“And I shall treasure its twin.”

~

In the check-out line five minutes later.
“Salutations, comrade.”
“Charmed, my mangotarian confidant. So what are you plotting for the feast?”
“I was contemplating a lassi.”
“Oh! Yum. Do you need a sous?”
“I would fancy an accomplished hand.”
Neither of them purchased anything else. Just the mangos. They both refused the offer of a brown paper bag.

⌘

This Is What Always Is

Pondering grace
amidst the twinkle
wistful thinking
evermore

Infinity roots
ascending
compassion
at the fore

Nostalgically immune
the legacy seed
romantics chant
Om Shanti

(yes please)

Plush in a world
of wide-eyed arousal
rebirth
is keen

Look at us!
glowing
again

⌘

The Faded Sleeve

“My fingers smell like citrus. How strange,” he said while sliding the cranberry curtain a smidge to his right so he could get a good look at the family across the street tossing toys into the backseat of their four-door coupe.
“They must be going to her mom’s house,” he reckoned while taking an unhurried step along the sun soaked hallway of his second story apartment before elaborating, “for dinner.”
“And I shall make asparagus with baked parmesan,” he announced while gazing downward at a dusty crate of records from the ‘70s.
“Perhaps I’ll listen to Alice Coltrane,” he declared while delicately bending a knee to browse the albums, patiently flipping from one to the other, yet curious about the wall map above his head: the United States of America, ripe with purple and green pushpins that formed the shape of a wilted mushroom.
He returned his gaze to the vinyl as a wailing fire truck rumbled down Druid Park Drive shaking the floorboards.
“Om to my Kundalini rising, here she is,” he whispered excitedly, pushing himself up from the wooden floor with the album “Journey in Satchidananda” tucked beneath his arm.
“It’s a full moon tonight,” he murmured while spying a folded piece of paper buried deep inside the left-hand pocket of his saffron robe. “What the?”
He repeated the mantra in his head: Breathing in, two, three, breathing out, five, six.
“It’s decided, I will invite the downstairs neighbor for brunch. Then I can ask,” he paused to exhale a hangdog sigh, “if my nag champa chaps their tranquility.”
Filled with unreliable confidence, he prudently walked to the end of the hallway, stopping at the mouth of the living room to unfold the diminutive note he found in the confines of his hooded cloak. It read: “Sprinkle the lemon on your asparagus.”
After a mindful exhale, he gingerly lowered himself into a lotus position on the crimson zafu in front of the turntable. He slid the record from the faded sleeve and reverently played the B-side first.

⌘