Could you even
for one second
imagine a world
devoid of sweaters?
Do not think
harder than normal
of the lack
of spinning thread,
thread of lies,
a comment thread,
a garment woven
of spider's silk
and quiet wrath.
A loom creaks
somewhere across town,
a cold basement
coughs, sputters, hacks,
up its insides.
We went deep,
far too deep
down and found
it all unwound.
The mayday sounds,
Jenga falls down,
chickens run around,
and the sweater,
your wooly veil,
unspools.

How many more hai-
kus before you realize
I'm just a slacker?

-J.G.C.

This poem is probably late,
but I went on a double date.
A fair ginger lass,
her cousin, and Ash,
made tonight especially great.

​-J.G.C.

Daughter of the house of David! Of Galilee!

Thou that art highly favoured, I see in your eyes that the Lord is with thee!
A day shall come when thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and bring forth a son, but it is not this day.
He shall reign over the house of Jacob for ever, and when the age of men comes crashing down, of his kingdom there shall be no end, but it is not this day!
This day we fight!
By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you, fear not, Mary: for thou hast found favour with God.

-J.G.C

My sweet honey love, you done cut me deep.
The learned would shout, "Excutere! Excutere!" 
but your feet are lightning, your mind a desert basin,
or so the plebes report.

You remain awake long into the hours of midnight blue,
and in the company of lovers is where you spend your time.
Or so the plebes report. 

Those who despise, will despise,
the heart surgeons operate still,
the actors act,
but the learned still shout,
"Excutere! Excutere!"

-J.G.C.

When I was young, we would
take turns skipping stones
up on the hill, in our khaki shirts.
Now I ask for shelter.

​Clatter, a chain reaction,
hikers on the lower shelf,
it was hard to resist the Temptation.
Now I show some sympathy.

How does it feel?
To be without a home, 
only gathering moss?
Now I'm warm like the evening sun.

-J.G.C.

Sizzle the sides of my mouth,
oh, that sweet burn
like a kiss from a goddess of flame.

Like the rooster, you flaunt your plumage
wearing your coat of fire, draped in a bed of coals
you are chili, but you are not.

I am penitent, brought to tears before you
head bowed over you, a chalice of holy water by my side
​like a masochist, we need our food to hurt us

What can man do, as in life, but accept the inferno?

​-J.G.C.

green, round, like my heart

sauteed in oil, what a treat
​
mustard is your friend

​-J.G.C.

Thy chrom-ed steel, thy dial-ed knobs,
suited for all lesser cooking jobs,
grace my kitchen with thy form,
keep my buns be-crisped and warm.

Restrained from credit, although it's due,
may your grilling rack hold bright and true.
A crumb tray inside, for utility's sake,
catches every single burnt bread flake.

May you know your value this day,
as I am grateful, and hope you will stay
right here in my kitch, as long as you please,
oh, toaster oven, may your coils ne'er freeze.

-J.G.C.