Archive for Poetry

“No thanks, I’ll not.”

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on July 4, 2013 by JC

I was out tonight, and she was thirsty,

Her man right there, she came,

And offered me…a smoke so hot…

I said ”no thanks, I’ll not.”

I don’t engage in horn the fool–cuckold, that fool–that fool.

I don’t engage in horn the fool, let time set that fool free.

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I Don’t Engage

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 4, 2013 by JC

I was out tonight, and she was thirsty,

Her man right there, she came,

And offered me…a smoke so hot…

I said “no thanks, I’ll not,”

I don’t engage in horn the fool–cuckold, that fool–that fool.

I don’t engage in horn the fool, let time set that fool free.

This was not nice, you know,

No slice, you know, of pie.

But she stepped off, to stay,

Now all I say, is “k.”

The Cantina 2/22

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 22, 2013 by JC

After what seemed like no time I made it to the whistle-whetting spot, which can be conditionally modified that way depending on my intentions. My intention was to continue rhapsodizing upon the rhapsodies around and within me and there were likely to be some unmistakably living sources of music to reinforce the roll I was on at the Cantina, so I yessed while outside the door the notion that the Cantina was consistent with abstracting cadences and songs—which I was especially inclined to abstract now—and moving in space and moving above thought accordingly. I can think about it now because I really felt it and really drank it and really became it then—felt and drank and became the music abstracted, became the field capturing all the piping-hot, underappreciated delight around and within me.

Buttressed of course by my bright-green, orange-laced shoes I swagger-shuffled into the Cantina like FOOSH-FOOSH-SHICKA-NOW-HOOSH—THICKA-HOW and all eyes converged on me.

I was not that handsome, I was not that tall, I was not popping an obvious erection, I did not have a sweat-stain resembling a urine-stain on my pants; I was just the only one FOOSH-FOOSH-SHICKA-NOW-HOOSH—THICKA-HOWing and so the other patrons did not know how to respond—a single note of confusion was all I picked up for a moment. There was a band, and that propped up my momentum; their leader blasted his trumpet as if it was the world’s only recourse.

I stopped playing sounds mentally to allow for the trumpet solo, to be here, now, for the enlightened man’s contribution: he knew what he was doing, and my gratitude couldn’t wait. I danced all the time, though, “In the land of Mars…” I slithered up and down for the solo’s benefit and benefit it did because everyone started dancing along—electrified by my influence sure but ultimately by potential energy going active, kinetic, as it should when the context conduces; the context conduced so the moment arose and potential went actual and that’s how “should happen” became “did happen.”

I got a fez-tip from the enlightened hornist probably for catalyzing what he’d envisioned or at least progress toward what he envisioned when staring himself down in the green room, staring down those eyes, that face; the prayer “let me come to the fore tonight,” was answered with more than a little help from me. I’d helped him reach in and channel what was most deeply there—perhaps his make-up; perhaps his buried, primordial, metaphysical character; perhaps the pinnacle of his then-current self.

Part I (2/20)

Part II (2/21)

As goes the psyche, so goes the pen

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 13, 2013 by JC

Drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip…

“Sounds like my faucet in disrepair,” you say?

Try hearing that all day, every day. Try hearing and feeling drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip on top and inside your head all the time and then try such flippant comparison again. Every fucking time there’s the sound, there’s the sensation, the two make the phenomenon—drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip means wetting of the same 1-inch radius, the same pi-inches-squared area, followed by geometrically different but equirhythmic radiations all day long.

I won’t talk—I won’t—and that’s why the dripping and thipping won’t stop, why a bit of my scalp is bare, why little, cracked bowls are wetted in the same time, time after time.

I thought this method of torture was bygone, but it’s 2013 already and still
I’m getting dripped and thipped insane by this routine, these habits, by myself. All the play I have now is with letters. No longer do I play with sounds, spoken words. No one would or will play like I want to.

This, here, my jungle gym, my wooden castle like the one distant daddy brought and built one Christmas—brought and built by daddy, played with ad nauseam, until that consistency became drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip.

Though I’m aware of what’s happening and my body and the rest of me are free to go, I continue furiously and only semiapologetically; what separates this from my boyhood playground?

I suppose that since I am still that boy at heart I need to play, and since now I won’t play with my body like I used to, I must play with letters.

But can I reengage my muscles, my bones, my connective tissues, my organs? My soul is healthy, engaged. My letters come from my body, so my body is engaged. That’s right. This is everything I need.

Fields bare, everywhere

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on February 12, 2013 by JC

Cuckolds, cuckolds, everywhere,

Plowmen make their fields go bare!

Only What’s Real

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 11, 2013 by JC

I had oh boy did I wholly and utterly and sensually have that sweet, melt-in-your-mouth white chocolate and oh did it so wholly hit every spot I needed and wanted it to hit at that time! Oh, boy, did it make my heart knock at my sternum! But my tastes have changed: now I don’t need anything, and I want something less processed, something not quite as sweet, something that doesn’t melt too quickly. If it melts in your mouth and it’s sweet, it’s too easy to eat and will make you fat, soft, lethargic. Otherwise, you’re forced to find the goodness, derive, discern the goodness from a natural mess of true impressions. You’ll naturally come to appreciate even bitterness and rigidity—your sensation of bitterness will give way to richness, depth, complexity; your sense of crunchiness should need no transformation. Instead of calling it bitter, the refined palate calls it chocolaty, and instead of calling it rigid or hard, the refined palate calls it al dente all’inizio, nutriente e dopo. Just authentically chocolaty—no positive or negative connotation there, and so it is with people. No name is inherently positive or negative in connotation; no person is inherently positive or negative. The best you can be is honest in action at every possible moment, and the best chocolate is 85+% chocolaty.

No shit, Brook

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on February 11, 2013 by JC

Boner Brook said this:

“I have a ragin’ hard on.”

I said: “No shit, Brook.”