The Veal Concerto

      Too hungry even to think, I quit my hovel
With a psalm and a tin can tied to a string.
Newspaper salad does not taste good. Alas,
      I cannot stomach ash. But I am deranged, deranged...
Blind, I see only sheet music. A feeling hand
Along my neighbors’ homes, my nose guides, reeling in vapors,
Up half-steps, around corners, past the snoring guards...
What is the source of these vague emanations?
The great oven, igniting the sky, where desire
      Burns like Rome.

My odyssey takes me to the bazaar. On top of a hill,
I strum my lute at cobblestone rickshaws.
Dressed like a filthy cabbage, I croon:
      “Would that I were a bean, not a being,
      Some haggard sunflower to sup on the sun.
      The mighty lion licks BBQ sauce off its chin,
      And even that tone-deaf fowl, the crow, slurps up worms
      Like so many noodles. Tonight, all God’s creatures dine,
      While I chew on egg-shells and coffee-grounds again.
      Who pelts me with coins, keeps me from thieving
      Carrot peels down among skirt-hems and sandals!
      Heaven preserve me from that hunger hater,
      The market wench, whose stick maketh my teeth
      To scatter like black beans and kernels of corn.
      Please help me. A yam’s better off than I am.”
A clink in the bucket rewards my warblings.
I suck on the copper, good to me as fruit.

      I cannot distinguish a saint from an idiot,
But, sure to avoid the snake charmer and oracle,
Like a spoon through peanut butter, I press on, press on...
Past the produce stands with their crescendo of color
      Where the whole orchestra of fruits and vegetables
      Take their seats and tune their instruments,
      All the way to the butcher’s stall...

Like a tuning fork aimed at a thick cut of steak,
Resonant, my vision blurs, and my mind, it wobbles,
From all the pleasure the hanging carcasses promise.
      Now roasted cello, with all the trimmings,
      Now bubbling vats of oboe ragu.
But while mustachioed laborers in dirty wife-beaters,
By instinct, fix their eyes on the meat being carved,
I, in my delirium, spy something delicious
Sweeping up giblets and humming an air.
I sense something sweeter than animal blood
In the sweat on the lips of the butcher’s young daughter.

It is the apple of my mind’s eye which brings it to a stop.
The blood drains from my thighs. Like a metal spoon sinking
In a tub of freezing water, all my hunger concentrates
Into a hot, stinging globule, on the very tip
Of my tongue. Lost in the crowd, I gaze and dream.

      Melon-soft, buttery, succulent mouthfuls,
      Is this my breakfast, dinner or lunch?
      I kiss her neck: a slurp of cantaloupe,
      Warm egg-yolk runs from the sides of my mouth,
      And there’s chicken-soup grease on my chin.
      I can’t decide if I'm eating or drinking,
      The kind of food you breathe.

My nostrils burn... I am blind, I am blind! O lust for meat,
Forbidden fruit, and all the desserts I will never deserve!

I am just a feral piglet, with bloodshot eyes and chewed up nails.
But if I were an elegant musician, I would leap up before her
And drop on one knee:
      “The egg is the most delicious part
      Of the female body, and yours to me
      Seem the edible pearls of a most ripe oyster.
      (I never learned how to peel an oyster.)
      You’ll have to excuse these caviar dreams,
      I’ve been in a very bad egg in a very bad way.
      (Over-egged! Idiot! Now she knows you’re cracked!)
      You see my teeth are chattering like castanets...
      I’ll memorize their tempo for a madrigal
      Which I dedicate to you. I love you...
      Phyllis... or better, Delise... and my only wish
      Is to serenade you with my mayonnaise
      (Polonaise! Polonaise!) in C flat major.
      The world is very cruel. I could help you
      Bare the yolk... My name? Eh... Florentine,
      I mean Benedict... Bah! Nevermind! Nevermind!”

      I have no choice. I do not know how to work,
      But I will smear my frugal human song
On the atmosphere, like marmalade on burnt toast.
I will kick my tin can until it sings, until
The singing bowl bears enough fruit for a horse.

      I need a pinto stud that eats very little
      And charges faster than all the butcher’s cavalry.

His daughter saddled behind me, I’ll tear through the night,
Wooping moonlight prayers into the wildflower plains.
And there build us a hut and marry her instantly
To suck on her fingers until they bruise.
      I’ll forget my defect and count myself rich
      With such a feast for daily bread.
I can hear the rushing wind as I quit the bazaar,
That copper coin burning a hole on my tongue.