Monday PoemDec 31st, 2012 | No Comments
I sat down
inside a pause in time
In a still pool
a formidable ring,
where bright stars
crashed into the twelve black,
from Ode to Walt Whitman and Other Poems, Translated by Carlos Bauer (1988 City Lights Books)
Monday PoemDec 24th, 2012 | No Comments
Hello again This is your overhead operator
I am the big message at the end of your beep
If I plug you in will you return my call?
Call me Old Man Puck Call me Peter Panic
Call me what you will but call for dear life
I offer any number of far out connections
As an unlisted long-distance metaphysician
I service a direct line to outer spaces
but I’m a down-to-earth sugeon when it comes to the heart
My goal is to make the world safe for the amorous
Are you primed for a bypass from miserty to mirth?
Or are you addicted to a habit of agony?
I teach the sex of loving and the love of sexing
Monday PoemDec 17th, 2012 | No Comments
“How could you have corrupted
a nice boy like that? my father
asked me out of your hearing
when for Thanksgiving I brought you
home. It was easy — I drew
on your already having been
corrupted by a dream, which
after meeting you that night at
Chaps I helped you realize.
I only failed in not being
able to draw corruption
out for good. Instead, we became
friends — with a similar dream.
Or is it — corrupt, I mean? Why
should I think so when you’ve not
once visited baths in Boston,
claiming that they’re reputed
to be not very good — as if
that ever kept anyone
out of them!...
Monday PoemDec 10th, 2012 | No Comments
When I was a kid in summer camp,
around 13teen & one night I lay asleep
in bungalow bed with 13teen other boys,
when in comes one of the camp councilors
who is nice fellow that likes ya, comeing to
my bed, sits down & starts to say: now you
will be leaving soon back to Flushing & I may never see you
again — but if theres ever aneything I
can do to help ya let me know, my farther is
a lawyer & I live at such & such a place
& this is my adress — I like you very much —
& if yr ever alone int he world come to me.
So I loked at him getting sad & tuched &
Monday PoemDec 3rd, 2012 | 1 Comment
Peter died in a paper tiara
cut from a book of princess paper dolls;
he loved royalty, sashes
and jewels. I don’t know,
he said, when he woke in the hospice,
I was watching the Bette Davis film festival
on Channel 57 and then —
At the wake, the tension broke
when someone guessed
the casket closed because
he was in there in a big wig
and heels, and someone said,
You know he’s always late,
he probably isn’t here yet —
he’s still fixing his makeup.
And someone said he asked for it.
Asked for it —
when all he did was go down
into the salt tide
of wanting as much as he...
Monday PoemNov 26th, 2012 | No Comments
Somewhere between the restless whispers
and silent promises,
before this war even reached the homeland,
ex-lovers lingered like replases and fractured friendships staggered
like fresh brush strokes distorting
the unfinished canvas of collaboration
My art has become casualty to a tained struggle
over land unholy
I have been left blinded by the stillness of abstract portraits of
Intoxicated by the fumes of jealousy
My name will not be lent to this revolution
I will not fall deaf to these bombs
and chorus of laughter
My faith will not die in these battlefields
These bones will not...
Monday PoemNov 12th, 2012 | No Comments
A central city
is males up.
A central city’s
of corporate cocks
and capital’s pride.*
Video is the ejaculate
of the gleaming corporate cocks;
by video they assert & cum
inside your home
*right now Chicago’s Mr. Sears has the biggest one.
from Joys & Perplexities (1992, The Jargon Society)
Monday PoemNov 5th, 2012 | No Comments
Within this restless, hurried, modern world
We took our hearts’ full pleasure – You and I,
And now the white sails of our ships are furled,
And spent the lading of our argosy.
Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan,
For very weeping is my gladness fled,
Sorrow has paled my young mouth’s vermilion,
And Ruin draws the curtais of my bed.
But all this crowded life has been to thee
No more then lyre, or lute, or subtle spell
Of viols, or the music of the sea
That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.
Monday PoemOct 29th, 2012 | No Comments
“Chariots of Fire” playing off
the back of a semi-truck
becomes more than a metaphor
for life after this neo heaven
gives its last call without
the help of stars lacking contracts.
Tonight I’ve danec slow
with topless women, ancient
couples and men who own
the irng but not the wife;
we hold each other with passiong
found in the bottom of us.
Our tongues are breathalysters
proecting us from mourning
sobriety. We inherit our new
debts like misplaced surfboards
found miles from water – clunky
and leaving fingertips stiff with wax.
We may not always wants crwods
full of eye patches,...