To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots,
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Oh! Honey Honey
Can I be the Honey on your leaf?
Stickily clung
and so sweet

My name a remembered taste
On the tip of your tongue
Honey
and so sweet

So why not?
The air is cold
The bees are tired
won't have to fight for long

My Honey

the sun comes down a little earlier around here
a hemisphere away and winter's setting in
but i stopped feeling the cold
a while ago

it used to sting, stickily fresh
but now the wound's healing
knitting together with paralyzing heat

with suffocating heat
just let me breathe

just
let me

i unzippered my chest the other day
let out the butterflies behind my ribcage
spilled sparrowsong from my wrists
good god, i'm finally free

you guys
are all
just
shallow believers

you guys are all
just

HOPE

Gushing stickily out of heart
Dripping from the dagger stabbed
Flooding on the floor is my blood.
I sense the deadness of death.

Numerous skulls round his neck
Monstrous foot over my head,
Grim reaper thwarts my throat
Life Sap tastes briny on ground.

Facebook is not what it it is.
Single post can stab to death,
Oozing out of the holy wounds
Blood and water plops but flops.

I can see the Sun setting in zenith
Gleaming rays fall on my eyes
I padlock them to the world
Far-sighted a dawn dawning o'er.

My bed is full of crumbs:
It's odd how very very dire that is.

I'm surrounded by empty plastic

Things
Containing the memories of food:
Traces, some crusty cheese, a last sip.
And my bed is full of sugary crumbs.
.
My hair clumps stickily to my neck.
The fluorescence of the room flickers -
(The fleeting worry of unfixable darkness)
How terrible it is to be sick in my bed
And sick of my bed.
Sick of nothing, nothing,
Nothing at all

And surrounded by
Hollowed, consumed, abandoned, desiccated,
Used-up, plastic
Things.

I am the expanse of purposeless selves before me,/
summated like the stickily-shaded colours under/
a calculus-course curve, whose trajectory marks me across one axis/
to the next, just as I am the small drops of cloud squashed/
into one another as an ocean I now glare at, whose sands/
meeting the horizon are later stewed into the clearer edges/
of a mirror so that this glare may continue. There was a myth of a man/
who projected himself into a pool of water until he thinned away/
into anorexias of young girls with camera phones pointed/
towards their white faces. Snakes eat their tales sometimes./
Narcisuss is a poet. White girls are poets. I've swallowed them all/
into my large black mouth. When I speak: soft-spoken integrations,/
meagre, selfless, hollow-- filled with stagnant historical airs formatted/
cleanly now on a word-processor-- while my hand reaches across my navel,/
bored, digging: then a birth there as my spine cracks across my bedsheets/
with my lamplight flickering as candles once did,/
and shadows wall-dancing with the idea of ancient meanings/
now lost but never once there, self-defining, self-signifying, self-pointing,/
self-shaking self-but-not-self./

It is Sunday, 7:45am.
The oldest child is scuttling around the kitchen,
I can hear toaster-pastry wrappers
being torn asunder.
Staring at the ceiling fan, with its dusty blades,
my arm extends above my face, my hand separates the pages
of the very first Longmire mystery.
No words have been read for several minutes.
Putting the insurance agent’s business card between the leaves,
the book finds the nightstand.
I roll to face my wife.
Propped on an elbow, I look, rewind a handful of memories and know
I’m in the right bed, in the right place, and am grateful for that knowledge.
That isn’t to say that I’ve never pondered other beds, other ceiling fans;
androcentric honesty with myself  proves otherwise, of course.
The adorable high school chubster, crystallized into the stately blonde;
what would it be like, staring at her ceiling fan, lying stickily next to her, trying
to drum up conversation?
I cannot imagine.
Or, the raven haired stunner, with her perfect imperfections;
she steals my breath with every glance, at every venue, every time,
yet, despite the ease with which I can imagine her polished toenails
stabbing the air beside my ears, I cannot imagine her ceiling fan,
nor can I imagine the effort needed to assist her to an aura of comfort
inside her own skin.
So, here, in my home, in my bed, with my wife;
propped on my elbow,
I look at her
and I am glad when she adjusts her position,
her snoring intensifies momentarily
and she chuffs some morning breath into my face.
Dismissing the smell, I am mesmerized by her
fairy saddle of freckles. (I count them. Eighty five.)
I am enthralled with her unruly strawberry-blonde haystack,
the paleness of her skin, the fullness of her lips, and the fullness
of my heart for her.
A minute passes and I have replayed some of our most memorable
moments under this bedroom’s ceiling fan.
Sure, they’ve been sweaty, sticky, and such;
but they’ve given way to some of the best, most honest,
and most vulnerable conversations of my life
and they’ve given me the best people I’ve ever met,
or played a part in making.
Like the blades of a ceiling fan
my thoughts can turn,
my eyes might wander,
but my heart will always
come home.

there it was,
sitting in the
tiny rainbow room
of my brain,
you know,
my joy's broom closet,
just behind the third eye.

was an inkling,
it was just a little one,
of an effervescent poem,
written with the love of silly.
it was born from,
the smackerel of hunny
held so stickily in the bear's paw(maw).
the one that lives
on the corner,
and is always looking
for more

it became then,
a twinkling.
it was growing you see,
expanding in girth,
learning of mirth,
the art of the funny.
it was begining to be,
the notion of an idea,
all perpertual motion
and fuzzy with glee.

it bursts forth from,
the closet and into the
brain,
in a wizzing, fizzing, ball,
too hard to contain.
around and about,
it ricochetted.

trying to find
a small pocket,
of spared thought
in which to fit
and sit for a while,
to cogitate it's
self into an amusing,
musing,
of rude and unseemly
health.

but alas and alack,
it could find no berth
in the banality,
no perch for it's caprice.

wrinkling now,
with the loss
of it's earlier gleam,
it suffers from
a bout of hysteria
and screams in futility.

please, let me  be,
a thought, complete
and in context.

let me, not suffer,
the fate of being,
just a half arsed dream.

it can see, no worse fate
for an inkling,
with some gumption.
to wither and die,
as a mere
whimsical fantasy.
with, proud and lofty thoughts, passing on by,
with not nary, a glance
in the direction,
and little to no,
compassion,
for the fate of
the poor inkling.

that once ,
had delusions of granduer.
far above, it's humble station.

For everyone theirs a spot, weather there crazy or weather they're  not. They fool themselves they'll fool you and me oh yes they'r great at trickery.
Someone wants them to be, so they'll tell them okay and smile stickily.
They have no integrity, the truth won't set them free, they like it were they are, they're where they want to be.
Though they may lie and shout oppressed, between the two us it's just they're sickly little jest.

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on ..........

Hardened glue is in my brain
Stickily I play the game
Happy faces cause my pain
Gleeful as I rise to fame
Captured since they know my name

Tears in eyes slowly misting
I discover they are mine
All my dreams they are twisting
Throwing pearls before the swine
Stepping out, I toe the line

No, I won’t, not any more
Throw my talents to the ground
Calmly walking out the door
Heart is suddenly unbound
Swimming bravely to the shore
Feet are firmly on the floor

[by Edna St. Vincent Millay]*
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

I'm not a game to be played
when feeling bold
then quickly dropped into cold
once your nerve wavers thin
affection shifting to chagrin
looks like I am tricked again
as inauthentic you crept in.

clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels.

you are not some toying thing
to be cajoled to dance and sing
as my will does ebb and flow
this is it, there you go, there you go
you hot you cold you shy you bold.

clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels.

we are not we and never where
distant boy and gold hair girl
so I do you and you do me
across the sea to shining sea
if we could I think we would
it's written now so should be good
the feels were felt deep under hood.

clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels.

there still will be the filling up
your nectar unto my loving cup
I pulled you in you pushed away
the push and pull is how we play
a pretty glisten on the morn
did offer stickily sweet to adorn
fingers tips and lips did drip.

clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels

we switch it up we switch it down
in penners pens a friendship found
and so unbidden feels abound
I'm laid bare across your knee
my breath held pulse running round
I know you know I want it now 'la fessee'
this newly new thing sees me free

clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels

J.C. 08/03/2019

Whereas, hereafter, here

is relative, meaning related, as in linked,
en-tangled,
tied
to you there now.

Here, we arrive on a time, as all fine stories do.

We step lively, where no angel fears to tread, ever,
as you must know, by now,
ever
is a word's own being manifested in meaning
all the same
to you
dear, as in worth the effort to look for and hold, in the having
state, of meaning,
dear reader, we made history blink.

Missle warfare, in our culture, came before the giant fell.

Shepherds and irrigators used slings, and other throwing
ob jects, sub ject e ject

juxtapose sup-positive positioning, do we think we

or be we? Wu, woo way, woo.

You up for this. It is live, this thread we walk along up
right un aware of wind or rain or storm,

no dry nib scratch, no drip of black on the illumination,
no breeze to blow plains of gold one atom thick

as a leaf, gold leaf, who'dathunk that?

A teller of tales talking to a peacock feather from a carcass
coyotes left by the road.

Ed Teller told me, some things called quantum and strange,
are simple has human beings,
there's the humus part, and the being part.

Art and science, sorta.

The trope is no differnt than when Gulliver was breathed
into our earth wide disneyfied minds,

give peace a chance,
alls, we are saying, is give peace a chance.

And when the boomers are taken down a knotch or two,
a tic, tic, re calibrate

focus
thumbnail, zoom in on the eye in the thumbnail

to the gleem in the eye,

reflecting a Pepsi being poured into a Coke, with a Real Thing,

Giant sticker stuck stickily can't shake it take it oooo

no just any
body, don't you want some body to love? Roar or

was that a flash,
that was a genuine pshahdelic flash back on an out of zone
experience,
who knew? Boundaries are the best parts of bubbles.

Dark and menacing

it comes close, it attaches --


stickily to us.