Experimental

The needle hits the black

scratching when it lands,

then the music plays itself:

a phonographing hand.

The chords play that goddamned beat

but that chorus just repeats

but we know the purpose of the song

is that way it moves the feet.

So I like to play it often now

'till the vinyl wears to smooth

the black, it slashes grey

'till there's pouring, pleading grooves.

My heart hardens to a chrysalis

when the music belches honey

a sticky sweet junk funk cream

a bled brain breakfast: ordered runny.

Bees buzz into my coffee cup fist

burrowing deep in the handhive

oscillating into my nails

making honeycombs: yellow, five.

One per finger, an outstretched source

of saccharine comprehension of another's sentience.

The gooey golden tendrils spill and touch another beekeepers'

and then we both know what the honeybee's dance is all about:

both of us - simultaneously and matrimoniusly implode in understanding

of the black vinyl doo-woop wasp's nest that is the bright wide world:

a grinning big buzz that shakes the tectonic plates in time to