I have manifested such an abundance of disgust
for my former therapist
it’s almost a spiritual experience.

She was a narcissistic sociopath.

I gave up hating her for Lent.
Needless to say, the results
of my analysis were tragic.

I haven’t felt so violated
since Tim Tuttle tried to grab me
in the wilderness section of my Appalachian Trail.

It was in the sixth grade.
After little league practice.
He told everybody we made out,

behind the science building,
which really messed things up
with my intended, Jim Glynn.

I watched him kiss my fourth cousin
on the mouth. It played out
like a Shakespearean tragedy.

After lunch, which consisted of
Doritos and smoking pot
in the back of the Citgo station,

I watched in total awe
as a soccer ball spun towards me,
going about 6 miles an hour.

I kicked with all my Zen and missed.

Jody Lundgren laughed so hard
she spit out chewed up gas station cravings
and cotton mouth.

We were in the moment,
but we were not constructive
members of society.

My mom was apocalyptic.
She stocked canned goods
in our basement cellar.

My dad didn’t play favorites.
He was mean to everybody.
He made me eat the cream-style corn.

Needless to say,
I kept my Star Wars figures good and packed.
I knew the limitations of my religious upbringing.

Now, I am wary of metaphysical peddlers,
who try to sell unmitigated certainty.
They are pimps and panderers.

The absence of unknowing
is the dangerous result
of cult and fascism.

It is the path to Kool-Aid and other processed foods.

Any psychology that tells you
you can figure yourself out
is inherently flawed.

Understanding your own mind
only goes so far.
Eating with other people is much more fun.

The sweet taste
of honey delicious
is the Great Mystery.

It’s a sex-shaped Popsicle
that pours into the cosmos

like liquor made by monks.

My former scarapist is a demon granny.
She doesn’t feel the Flavor.
If she did, she’d quit giving advice.

She’d be all Cool Hand Luke.
Then she’d know,
and she’d be as quiet as God.

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JEANNE MARIE SPICUZZA is an international writer, actress, filmmaker, performer, painter and herbalist, and the founder of Seasons & a Muse corporations. A member of the Alliance of Women Directors, Film Fatales and Cinefemme, Jeanne Marie holds a B.A. in philosophy and psychology from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. While working on her M.A. in philosophy, she studied acting in London and Los Angeles, and art history in Italy. Finalist, nominee and winner of various awards, including the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences Nicholl Fellowships in Screenwriting, the Golden Headset Award, the National Organization for Women “Woman of the Year” and the Shepherd Express Best Performance Artist of the Year, Jeanne Marie is published in A Gathering of Tribes, Blue Fifth Review, Poetic Diversity and others. Her films have screened at Wisconsin Film Festival, Portobello Film Festival, LA Femme International Film Festival and more. Her premiere feature thriller, “The Scarapist,”™ won the VDKUF Award for best picture at the Berlinale European Film Market in 2016. Jeanne Marie is currently in post-production of her second motion picture, “Night Rain.” She is in active development of two additional motion picture projects, “Making Angels” and “Breath of God,” and is writing two new screenplays. An audio segment of her screenplay “Breath of God” from her self-titled CD is on permanent exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum. A mother and grandmother, Jeanne Marie lives in Los Angeles with her husband, film composer and Violent Femmes and BoDeans drummer, Guy Hoffman.

6 responses to “Honey, Delicious.”

  1. Jessica Blau says:

    I love this poem–excellent! Also love that you use first AND last names with all your “characters.” (Except the therapist, one must note!)

  2. Mary Richert says:

    Fuck yes “as quiet as God.” Oh, it’s so good to read a good poem. Thanks for posting!

  3. Gibby Godsmack says:

    Can’t wait to see the movie! As Jung teaches us, all dreams are about the dreamer!

  4. Cynthia McCroydle says:

    Snarkilicious!

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