In Praise of Honey

Listen to the spoken word track (with bass and flute) here.
If your body, sungthru
riddled and sticky,
demanded rechristening
for old time’s taste,
down I’d go
divebombin straight to and through the Source—
a treebranch’s wellhung
honeycomb totem,
ridged bulb
oozing transluscent gold—
sticky sticky delicious
hymns              praised be thy glue
as it binds blood, touch
and twinned heartbeats.
Of thee I sing,
liquid poem posing as blues,
in a red dress torn at the seams,
seems I’m singin your smell again,
no two scents the same,
the snowflake principle
hinges totems
upon the perfume
of individual taste.
                        and stickyfingered,
the pig-in-shit sinner
casts forth a network of clefs and tendrils,
catch on
and come to sing the joys of ritual trappings.
Come to sing
                        and come to be
                                    and come to come
and come undone and come apart at the . . .
o-god-yes a little-to-the-left:
if my fingers played these keys,
would you open up?
Would psalms recite your body
hungry, trembling, and chaste?
So many woulds to knock against,
and I’ve got a feeling,
call me crazy,
but I’ve got a feeling
that the fire sale
in your forest
—thick with thieves and secret pines—
means absolute wide open clearance.
Everything must go,
                        tagged for the taking,
and when I arrive, with a sack in hand and looter’s smile,
you smile back,
and I remember how fucking divine
the smell of earth
on a freshly creased morning
can be.             It is to die for
the way we live through
sweat-lodged eclipses:
solar, lunar,
sonorous, laughing,
and salt-rimmed
are the skin’s razing of honey.
In praise of honey,
I sing of simmering
                        when the pot boils over,
I sing of swimming
                        when the fish bite back,
I sing of bars
                        candied and sold
                        to the lowest bidder,
I sing of butter
                        on the teeth of silver knife.
I sing in tribute
to the world’s infinite honey supply:
may it remain the excited child’s
sticky wet dream
of webbed fingers,
fire sales,
and seams torn apart at the . . .
seems I’m singin your scent again,
and how fuckin divine
the smell of earth
on a freshly creased morning.
It is to die for
the way we live through
the soil of a memory—
                                    moonlighting as grave robbers—
                                    in the middle of day.

About John Biscello

Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, spoken word performer, and playwright, John Biscello now lives in Taos, New Mexico. He is the author of two novels: Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale and Raking the Dust, and a collection of stories, Freeze Tag. His fiction and poetry has appeared in: Art Times, nthposition, The Wanderlust Review, Ophelia Street, Caper, Polyphony, Dilate, Militant Roger, Chokecherries, Farmhouse, BENT, The 555 Collective, Instigator, Brass Sopaipilla, The Iconoclast, Adobe Walls, Kansas City Voices, and the Tishman Review. His blog--Notes of an Urban Stray--can be read at Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale was named Underground Book Reviews 2014 Book of the Year.
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