poets and writersDec 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)
poets and writersDec 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?...
poets and writersDec 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...
poets and writersDec 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...
poets and writersNov 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
HIV-AIDS, poets and writersNov 23rd, 2012 | No Comments
Honestly, I just re-subscribed to The New Yorker a couple of weeks ago after being away from it for a few years. Just didn’t have the time to keep up, such long articles and all. But if I’d not already done so, coming upon Alex Ross’ “Love on the March” from the November 12 issue would probably have been enough to get me back as a subscriber. There may be no music journalism better than...
Gay Composers, poets and writersNov 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)
poets and writersNov 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,...
poets and writersOct 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