"All right, kids, let's hop on the e-ride."
And I bend and groan like a brontosaur.
I'm burnt out, for real, for sure.
No more okama Scheherezade,
twirling my veils
and spinning tales
with my Absalom-smokey
glass bubble pipe.
No more gaslighting, guys,
no more voices,
no more twists and turns.
No more hot potato talks.
It's time to go kids.
With not one more silhouette
will I shadow-box.
Auf wiedersehen, adieu.
Au revoir, Pee Wee.
Adieu to you and you.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Gynecologist's Lament
Now both feet up in the stirrups, girl.
With your index and middle fingers
spread that rusty cooter.
I'm gonna spray it out,
make it fresh and tidy
and -- Whoa! Girl, whatchugot
we call a maneater.
Oo-ee, a period piece
from Tupenny Lane --
Hamburger Helper!
My bloody Valentine
looking like chopped watermelon.
Put her meat curtains
on a respirator, stat!
Oh Lordy help her!
Is her rosebud rough or what?
I damn near cut myself on that wart there.
Oh heaven help me!
Wouldn't be surprised
if vagina dentata were next.
With your index and middle fingers
spread that rusty cooter.
I'm gonna spray it out,
make it fresh and tidy
and -- Whoa! Girl, whatchugot
we call a maneater.
Oo-ee, a period piece
from Tupenny Lane --
Hamburger Helper!
My bloody Valentine
looking like chopped watermelon.
Put her meat curtains
on a respirator, stat!
Oh Lordy help her!
Is her rosebud rough or what?
I damn near cut myself on that wart there.
Oh heaven help me!
Wouldn't be surprised
if vagina dentata were next.
Epitaph
A prim remembrance,
unspoken on arid summer winds,
etched on a brown sandstone boulder
a child's two hands could bear:
"He wrote in water."
A memory alive only
on the kind lips of those who forgive,
and unknown to those
who were strangers.
unspoken on arid summer winds,
etched on a brown sandstone boulder
a child's two hands could bear:
"He wrote in water."
A memory alive only
on the kind lips of those who forgive,
and unknown to those
who were strangers.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Canto et Respondu
Many tried to figure me out
so that they might ride me.
I shall be as the Sphinx
my back rough granite
under your feet,
my head turned
from your hectoring voice.
I do not deign to meet
your gaze.
It's my prerogative to contradict
myself in my stony head.
The game is not in my bed:
it plays itself out
under my derisive nose
as the Sun sets red and indifferent
to the West,
where dunes of tan African sand
kick up and set haze
On the horizon.
You stamp and wheedle.
I will not budge.
Throw your hypodermic
needle to the pile
of scree you climbed
up to get here.
You will not nudge
me from the eternity which teaches me.
so that they might ride me.
I shall be as the Sphinx
my back rough granite
under your feet,
my head turned
from your hectoring voice.
I do not deign to meet
your gaze.
It's my prerogative to contradict
myself in my stony head.
The game is not in my bed:
it plays itself out
under my derisive nose
as the Sun sets red and indifferent
to the West,
where dunes of tan African sand
kick up and set haze
On the horizon.
You stamp and wheedle.
I will not budge.
Throw your hypodermic
needle to the pile
of scree you climbed
up to get here.
You will not nudge
me from the eternity which teaches me.
Survivor of the Pious Lie
Jester or king?
I would be fool
ether way --
"Hierodule, assume
the position." Wrists
crossed over my head,
My chains are gold,
lustrous under
sodium lights.
The wet pavement
glitters in the night.
I am sold
For six pence,
my former owner
none the richer.
Caveat emptor:
I hold tooth
and claw
In clenched, blooded
fist. When I fall
I will not remember this.
My most frequent
prayers express
gratitude without sound.
But sometimes I beg
that all those lost
may yet be found.
I would be fool
ether way --
"Hierodule, assume
the position." Wrists
crossed over my head,
My chains are gold,
lustrous under
sodium lights.
The wet pavement
glitters in the night.
I am sold
For six pence,
my former owner
none the richer.
Caveat emptor:
I hold tooth
and claw
In clenched, blooded
fist. When I fall
I will not remember this.
My most frequent
prayers express
gratitude without sound.
But sometimes I beg
that all those lost
may yet be found.
Outside the Gates of the Tower of Babel
Prometheus Burns
flies by the gibbet:
Ravens hop in the cage.
One pecks his eye.
The next caws a reply
to a word he never said.
And when offended,
Mister Burns's skeletal remains
click a witticism
From a chip clipped
to his rotting brain.
The words all gone, he's naught but rags and chains.
flies by the gibbet:
Ravens hop in the cage.
One pecks his eye.
The next caws a reply
to a word he never said.
And when offended,
Mister Burns's skeletal remains
click a witticism
From a chip clipped
to his rotting brain.
The words all gone, he's naught but rags and chains.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Elevator
Alone, I press my cheek
to the wall's
brushed steel.
Is the cool, smooth expanse
now? Is it real?
I may be comatose
3,000 miles away --
Maryland or Virginia,
some strange state. I hope
Not, but wish to keep on
stringing this silver thread
the dead may follow home.
Take them, please,
and forgive these men:
I have seen
The white hot glare:
the furnaces of their souls.
They were cold
In their words to me,
but I can bear worse.
Boys will be boys --
Puppy dog tails and dark eyes
that glitter like ice.
I remember to you, oh God, the evil
on which they broke
attempts always to break me,
but finds me tempered instead.
And have they not loved,
and been loved? Your loving eyes
beheld the children to whom they read.
I pray you warm their beds
and receive them.
Thank you for their strength. Amen.
to the wall's
brushed steel.
Is the cool, smooth expanse
now? Is it real?
I may be comatose
3,000 miles away --
Maryland or Virginia,
some strange state. I hope
Not, but wish to keep on
stringing this silver thread
the dead may follow home.
Take them, please,
and forgive these men:
I have seen
The white hot glare:
the furnaces of their souls.
They were cold
In their words to me,
but I can bear worse.
Boys will be boys --
Puppy dog tails and dark eyes
that glitter like ice.
I remember to you, oh God, the evil
on which they broke
attempts always to break me,
but finds me tempered instead.
And have they not loved,
and been loved? Your loving eyes
beheld the children to whom they read.
I pray you warm their beds
and receive them.
Thank you for their strength. Amen.
What The Voices Gave Me #6
She said I'd limited myself
to picking up the pieces.
But what shards! Cobalt
blue, iridescent and bold
Yellows that shone
from miles away in a boulder-
strewn desert hot with shame.
We do not apportion blame;
it does not solve
a problem unsolveable.
These little fragments
chipped off lives
from which to make new lives.
Mosaics cemented
on your mother's brick
patio, somewhere in a Texas
now jarring and alien
to you -- you, accustomed to
modest olive women in chador.
These girls back in the world
are brassy and loud.
They make you blush.
So I, your little faggot sidekick,
will show you something crafty:
a pattern guided by Allah, quietly
made of brilliant splinters in a shaded garden.
Our secrets will be ours,
between us and the heaven that awaits.
to picking up the pieces.
But what shards! Cobalt
blue, iridescent and bold
Yellows that shone
from miles away in a boulder-
strewn desert hot with shame.
We do not apportion blame;
it does not solve
a problem unsolveable.
These little fragments
chipped off lives
from which to make new lives.
Mosaics cemented
on your mother's brick
patio, somewhere in a Texas
now jarring and alien
to you -- you, accustomed to
modest olive women in chador.
These girls back in the world
are brassy and loud.
They make you blush.
So I, your little faggot sidekick,
will show you something crafty:
a pattern guided by Allah, quietly
made of brilliant splinters in a shaded garden.
Our secrets will be ours,
between us and the heaven that awaits.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
1999
We slow-danced at the Giraffe
on gleaming parquet floors
under gold-white chandeliers.
Captain and Tenille by the pool table
"Do that to me one more time"
before we hit the liquor store.
on gleaming parquet floors
under gold-white chandeliers.
Captain and Tenille by the pool table
"Do that to me one more time"
before we hit the liquor store.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Amador
Essence of snow,
its cold ghost:
an endless rush
of vast whispers
tells the pines what we know.
Nettles and cones
black and damp underneath:
guilt for the wounds
a foe incurred
breaking himself on me.
A memory: blood and shit,
the liver and guts
of a two-point buck
steaming in a bucket
in a garage that sheltered my youth.
I have heard of a land
so thirsty, so hot with jealousy
the dead -- so many --
became husks of corn,
broken by men whose orders
Will never stop breaking them.
Silence reigns where they weigh
a man they don't know --
he speaks to them
past the chatter of crowds who hide him.
its cold ghost:
an endless rush
of vast whispers
tells the pines what we know.
Nettles and cones
black and damp underneath:
guilt for the wounds
a foe incurred
breaking himself on me.
A memory: blood and shit,
the liver and guts
of a two-point buck
steaming in a bucket
in a garage that sheltered my youth.
I have heard of a land
so thirsty, so hot with jealousy
the dead -- so many --
became husks of corn,
broken by men whose orders
Will never stop breaking them.
Silence reigns where they weigh
a man they don't know --
he speaks to them
past the chatter of crowds who hide him.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Angel of Death
"You warn people who are about to die!"
he told me as though I were an idiot.
I may be, bald and issuing a silent scream
across a Nerdrum bleakscape, a cape
of mangy fur draped over my exposed shoulder.
I gloat, however, too much to be that slave
who sat behind the General in his chariot
and issued mortal warnings to humility.
It is sin to take joy in puncturing another's hubris.
Yet it is folly not to find satisfaction in life's work...
he told me as though I were an idiot.
I may be, bald and issuing a silent scream
across a Nerdrum bleakscape, a cape
of mangy fur draped over my exposed shoulder.
I gloat, however, too much to be that slave
who sat behind the General in his chariot
and issued mortal warnings to humility.
It is sin to take joy in puncturing another's hubris.
Yet it is folly not to find satisfaction in life's work...
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Dr. Smith's Little Prick
Oh, the pain, the pain! I do exclaim. I punctured my pinky on a thorn from a carniverous space tree. No, you nincompoop, you ninny robot I do not want your ghastly probes among my innards, the way that cabana boy's was at the Gold Coast. Oh, he and young Tony Perkins in Silverlake. Oh, the pain, the marvelous pain!
How my back ails me. Oh William, my boy, dear boy thank you. How I needed this gin. Oh, ack, too much vermouth. Don't "sorry, Dr. Smith me." You! You would last minutes as Merv Griffin's houseboy. Penny, my dear, be a lamb and fetch a fan. This heat is dreadful and has dropped me into the darkest doldrums. Oh, my back, my poor aching back!
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