but for today,
i am still alive, alive, alive
and i will taste the honey
because it is sweet.

made honey for bunny.
isnt she such a bee?

i said, to the man
who eats honey like a bear.

“Your honey plenty crispy”

nothing in the fridge to eat,
I, Grumpy Mcgrupy, intone
to those responsible for its
fulfillment and my well being

the greek yogurts all have passed
their expiration date, silent assassins,
the cheese bin international emptied
of American and Swiss citizens,
the remainder wrapped in white in
languages not spoken

the produce drawer, naked in its drawers,
except for a sweet Vidalia onion from Georgia,
which is just no good for fresh direct eating,
besides, my tears, copious already
at my state of famination ruination

final recommendation textual arrives,
a solitary fresh honey crisp appe in the fruit bin,
which in desperation I inhaled while
writing poetry in the bathtub

text my pleasure at this last resort,
with a shopping list to which the response comes
in a tone of high moral ground, teasingly defensive,


Your honey plenty crispy!

rendered speechless but her words
added too,
to the shopping list...

Wild children have been here
to throw glitter in the green,
in the sun it does shimmer
and glimmer and gleam.

While the dew does sparkle,
the birds babble on,
flitting and swooping
on rays of the sun.

Butterflies dance
between evergreen trees,
carried by birdsong
and the early spring breeze.

They flit and they float,
in the colour of honey,
the kind that is golden,
delicious and runny.

the sweetest happiness
is often savored
in our tongues
like honey
after a long,
and bitter sadness.

i am in love with a boy
who makes me bleed honey,
and doesn't like his tea bitter.

i do not mind, though.
he will always kiss my wrists
before he slits them.