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.

Honeytongued

                        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

                        summer-melted

                        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—

                                    gardeners

                                    moonlighting as grave robbers—

                                    in the middle of day.