Neither Babylon's ***** nor Mother Mary
No, not the one who is quite contrary
For in her grows not a garden but a king
But who am I to say that divine thing
Sins, scarlet, red as blood
Turned white as snow, as wool
Yet still remains that poison-seed
Which reminds me and reminds me of my wicked deed
Pure, I am, but not have I always been-
"The devil finds work for idle hands to do"
Neither downtrodden in dirt nor radiant as sun
These tryings, becoming fruitful, turn me to the One

-c.j.

Enough of the amourous, February's far
Speak of the little bells instead
Ringing then clanging around in my head
Because it is said that when one writes
of the trouble, it can dissipate, be silenced
If only that were true of love, our blood,
and dew
Whose images forever stay and turn us blue

-c.j.

While I type to you about pigeons
and you talk about an article
with my subject's first syllable,
just spoken differently,
our walls crumble
a Berlin sight
Caught in the east, I am liberal
and arts
You claim to be only a sum of your parts
So here is me proving you wrong
Sending the lyrics to a trampled-down song
Eleventh hours soothe the night
Letting our minds get our breathing right
I'm sorry for my preoccupations
My lover, he was an alcoholic
I'm sorry for all of the poetry, too
Which probably only puzzles and bothers and unsanctifies you
It's the least, it's the most, it's the worst kind of best I can do
Underneath it all, my parts are few
So subtract and add and pull me apart
That way I'll know I own a tangible heart

-c.j.

Greetings, superficial
Question with an immediate answer
While I don't mean to impose
I'd like to not be the one who goes
Sliding glass, our metaphor
Cold night versus perfect morning
Yes, I see you, I always see you
And oh, how it has troubled and
fulfilled me
Conclusions, never reached
We only know that we know each other

-c.j.

His face in sunlight
It's become a paradigm
This is in no way a genesis
We've seen too many days
But, you, my dear, are
the reason for the paradigm shift
And you have no idea

-c.j.

Searching for the forty-ninth state
Seven times seven, known for its parallel
Except she couldn't be more crooked
At first, prejudices tainted most thoughts
But then those white tulips in the backseat
are more than evidence, they are answers
Escape the labyrinth? but how?
Straight and fast-the notes in the margin
They still search, but their consciences have quieted
Escape the labyrinth? here is how:
Through and through

-c.j.

Maybe I fell for the man in your letters
The artist in denial
Perhaps the east mesmerised me further
and the greyer things snapped me back
Deceit is an art, too, you know
and you cannot practise it on me
Let the liquor lay in past places, so you
can become the man, not just his traces

-c.j.