—-
In Ballet, You Are Always a “Boy”
In ballet, you are always a “boy,”
Growing up into unmade suits
Whose sleeves will deny
Any knowledge of you. For the day
Is wide, yet fixed, a stream
Eddying into smudge mist,
Seemingly pencilled in
Beneath the sky’s magnesium flash,
Though more real than the grief
You cannot yet have remembered—
Whistled or hummed. Later,
When we have less time, we may know
What we know now in an altered light
That bleeds from below, stairs
Burning above, passing a wintry dusk
In the ordinary way,
And feel reappear in a breeze
Floating about a column
The close, the familiar moisture,
The unheeding fluidity
Of the old days and years.
My Dad
He always had a thing
for frozen orphans,
matchbook memories,
8 oz. martinis,
Adolph Hitler,
Johnny Cash –
a voice crying
in the 2 a.m. wilderness
before the dawn
of talk radio.
He was my dad.
Bad Folk Song
It ain’t bad
living in a
bad folk song.
The people
are friendly,
and the weather
is nice.
Spinning Around
Move out of my way
A sharp reverential hustler
goes round the room
in the old-fashioned channel of “Quadrophenic”
on the couch under the window, head thrown back
in the New York sunlight
He had me from “hello,”
not to take him for what he is worth
As, spinning around,
we patrol earth and the setting sun
mid-morning, and I’m wondering
does he know I’m alive
I know you’re feeling me cos you like it like this
On days like this your
cock swells to proportions of egret
sleepy bird under my wing
As wise owl trembling, feebly, you stroke
in the sun Happiness that never lasts
Darkness comes to kick your ass
Long tall chicken when you’re
seventeen I know you’re
feeling me cos you like it like this disaffected queen
“I’m rimming a clown,”
Yes I did have that experience
And wow, I am still not chilled out
I am giving you my mainstream
Fly
All Greece hates
the still eyes in the Australian face,
the luster as of ecstasy tablets
where she wraps
a microphone around her legs.
All Greece begs
Kylie Minogue to lay her eggs,
a bird in a golden nest
which you could lay like a trowel
recalling Allen Ginsbergís Howl
ómodernist screed, or coffee dregs?
Greece sees her fly,
to the prime minister next
to Michael Hutchence, in excess
the beauty of his cool feet
cramped in a noose
pushed out from tiled bathroom wall
the shower curtain thump,
white ash amid funeral *fragment*
Not silver, nor nemesis, nor orgone box
Shall cover thee,
Nor Dolce et Gabbana, nor many of
Allen Ginsbergís musical song poems on harmonium
or Nick Cave,
Nor the wild rose
nor last summerís wilder rave
Lethe has forgotten thee, and forgiven
your mother, who began this war
Even Iraq says, okay,
she had sex with Michael
Hutchence on an airplane, itís not
the end of the world, wrap it up,
yet Greece reviles
that five-foot pop princess and
the more I look the more I see
her story is that of *fragment*
My Great Great Etc. Uncle Patrick Henry
There’s a fortune to be made in just about everything
in this country, somebody’s father had to invent
everything–baby food, tractors, rat poisoning.
My family’s obviously done nothing since the beginning
of time. They invented poverty and bad taste
and getting by and taking it from the boss.
O my mother goes around chewing her nails and
spitting them in a jar: You shouldn’t be ashamed
of yourself she says, think of your family.
My family I say what have they ever done but
paint by numbers the most absurd and disgusting scenes
of plastic squalor and human degradation.
Well then think of your great great etc. Uncle
Patrick Henry.
Fuck You Poem # 45
Fuck you in slang and conventional English.
Fuck you in lost and neglected lingoes.
Fuck you hungry and sated; faded, pock marked and defaced.
Fuck you with orange rind, fennel and anchovy paste.
Fuck you with rosemary and thyme, and fried green olives on the side.
Fuck you humidly and icily.
Fuck you farsightedly and blindly.
Fuck you nude and draped in stolen finery.
Fuck you while cells divide wildly and birds trill.
Thank you for barring me from his bedside while he was ill.
Fuck you puce and chartreuse.
Fuck you postmodern and prehistoric.
Fuck you under the influence of opium, codeine, laudanum and paregoric.
Fuck every real and imagined country you fancied yourself princess of.
Fuck you on feast days and fast days, below and above.
Fuck you sleepless and shaking for nineteen nights running.
Fuck you ugly and fuck you stunning.
Fuck you shipwrecked on the barren island of your bed.
Fuck you marching in lockstep in the ranks of the dead.
Fuck you at low and high tide.
And fuck you astride
———————anyone who has the bad luck to fuck you, in dank hallways,
—–bathrooms, or kitchens.
Fuck you in gasps and whispered benedictions.
And fuck these curses, however heartfelt and true,
that bind me, till I forgive you, to you.
Huffing My Piece
I’m not a guy
who will ever be
pulling off things
like he does—
his whole being is bod,
cock blocking,
riding jock.
He’s time.
I’m just a clock.
Belief
Benoit balls rosary
is this
could be
a poem
Desire
I wanted
to write something
in praise
of Macaulay Culkin’s novel, Junior
that wasn’t ironic
diehard
hard-on
succulence
Oh, please
really
Matt Dylan should be Matt Dillon
Dennis Peel should be Denis Piel
Lesley Briner should be Leslie Bryner
Charavari should be Charivari
André Leon Tally should be André Leon Talley
Sean Casey should be Shaun Casey
Ultimissima should be Ultissima Beauty Institute
Ma
chado should be Augusto Machado
Danillo should be Danilo
Robert Fiancé should be Robert Fiance
Debbie Mazar should be Debi Mazar
Shelly Duvall should be Shelley Duvall
Brews should be bruise
John Peters should be Jon Peters
The After-Dinner War
“There is in this sack a different sort of meal.”
—The Mabinogion
What it narrows down to is a market-driven fantasia
on others’ themes. You got a tender little look at it
back there where three roads cross. “Are you ticklish?” has requested
the new-fangled bundle of sleep, and who’s
to question her legitimate motives? We,
that’s who. With the sun setting and all,
we beetled in from the lost dude ranch. Aftershocks
the color of a seedpacket made it all seem alive.
Thou vehicle of remorse, apprise us,
and that quickly, of the circumstances
of our late removal. You see, it was our understanding
that choppy seas covered the planet, reined in only fitfully
by heresies that seem tame in the light of the morning after.
Once we had scratched ourselves and made a few indecent noises
it was time to get up and consult the sibyl,
who was on lunch break as usual.
Whom could we get to stand in for us?
Who will be next out of the starting gate?
Untitled
Today, I aspire to drunkenness
And a long swim
Straight out from the shore
And tonight I’ll sleep
In the same fetal position
That I’m standing in now.
There Was a Time
There was a time I would have
blown my nose on your shirt.
I can’t have fun unless I get drunk
We like to make pretty parties
with glass bottles smoke brown
believe me
you drink eighteen beers in one hour
and it’s bound to affect your life
I just can’t remember
what it did to mine
Clothes
This is a good line.
This is a bad line.
This is a clothesline.
Confessional Poem
when
my pet dog died my
parents
didn’t understand how upset I was
they didn’t know
he’d been giving me head
A True Story of Enormous Significance
The other day I was making some
tea so I put a pot of water on
to boil, turned away and got
a cup from the cupborad. I
put a teabag in the cup. By
and by, I went back to the
stove and stood over it, gazing
into the pot of water. Presently,
the water began boiling before
my very eyes. It wasn’t the
first time I had had such an
experience.
Girlfriend
a ball of light
comes up
a street
meets a park,
enters.
A translucent
statue
stands inside
one that holds
the day &
explains
love to the world
even in the
dark
the roaring sun
embraces the
girl
inhabits
and entrances
her. It’s
the way
you know me,
I know you.
The ball
streams past
but leaves her
light
shovels its
glory everywhere
jars & cars
out paces
the stars
the world
is flooded
with
you. That
good.
Splash!
Like a rock, Elly
May’s cake sank to the bottom
of the “ceement” pond.
In Outer Space
Judy Jetson spins
a disc and does the Orbit
to “Comet of Love.”
With a Little Grin
Morticia snipped off
the rose and placed the stem in
the tombstone-shaped vase.
Patty to Cathy
“While you study as
me, I’ll leave as you, then go
as me on my date!”
Housework
Samantha looked at
the dirty dishes. “Just this
once,” she thought, and twitched.
New Year’s Eve
The cork popped off the
bottle and, effervescent,
Jeannie overflowed.
Honey in the Flesh
She knew how to use
her high-voltage curves like an
unconcealed weapon.
Batman and Robin
hang by threads above
a bubbling vat of acid.
To be continued…
Model Children
Kitten told the truth.
Princess set aside her pride.
Bud made right his wrong.
Island Girls
Mary Ann dons one
of Ginger’s dresses, but it
falls flat on her chest.
Gossip
Gidget and Larue
knock heads as they press their ears
to the princess phone.
Fred’s Breakfast
With a club, Wilma
cracked open the three-minute
pterodactyl egg.
Puberty
Wally pounds on the
bathroom door. “C’mon Beav! You’ve
been in there for hours!”
Fractured Fairy Tale
This kissing princess
was such a dog that the frog
she smacked simply croaked.
Green Acres
The smoke from Lisa’s
burnt pancakes slowly blackens
the fresh country air.
The Mod Squad
Julie, Pete and Linc
bust some thugs, then head back to
their pad to turn on.
Like Bird or Balloon
Sister Bertrille fades
to a speck in the blue sky
above San Tanco.
The Silverchair Poem
Daniel Johns, you’re a genius,
but you used to sound like
Pearl Jam so America says
no. You were cool. You had
our jizz. Now we want to fuck
The Vines. We did genius once.
We had critics who desribed it.
Now we’re into feeling horny.
You aren’t helping us. You’re a
what? We’ve forgotten how to
write about you. We’re with The
Vines now. They make us write
unbelievable copy. America
really loves to fuck. You’re a
what? Okay, you are. One star.
Unplanned Account
Everybody has a story. The mountain threw rocks at me. I stood up to it. At the top I built a shelf for my record. There was enough sky for another life, an abutment of air. Science itself authorizes blue, whoever comes along may have some. Up here one can appreciate the eye as an exposed part of the brain. That’s Helga, the chick who shares my pad. She’s not really orange, it’s the picture. We’re moving the aerial into the hall. I’m an emotional guy who lacks a cohesive point of view, and Helga has an eating disorder. She’s a monist. I can dig it. I mean, why did the universe go to all that bother? Bears drunk on honey wrestling with monkeys, electric burgundy odd-toed ungulates, and the two-headed snake—one head for eating and drinking, the other just for thinking.
Poetry Information
Rain with a sour smell. Not to worry, though you might wind up with it— primarily a race against your own skin. The skull is showing. The jerking horses in the old footage, bound to end badly. Psychi
c hardening, I suppose. Poetry is arranged by sound. I can say no more. A beloved relative from out of town was arriving the next day with a brand new infant who would be tense, disoriented and distraught at discovering herself uprooted from her familiar bassinet and plunged into a great metropolis seething with cutthroats and cheap chiselers. People ought to get out more, play cards more, fight more, fall down more. But we don’t need each other to watch a film, streaming overhead. At your behest, I stood behind the statue, peeking over its shoulder at live persons, catching something of their tenderness. They’ve been marinating, the young and the tough. Meanwhile you should all have live blood cell analysis.
Two Years Later
The hollow eyes of shock remain
Electric sockets burnt out in the
skull.
The beauty of men never disappears
But drives a blue car through the
stars
I took love home with me,
we fixed in the night and
sank into a stinging flash
1/4 grain of love
we had,
2 men on a cot, a silk
cover and a green cloth
over the lamp.
The music was just right.
I blew him like a symphony,
it floated and
he took me
down the street and
left me here.
3 AM. No sign.
only a moving van
up Van Ness Avenue.
Foster’s was never like this.
I’ll walk home, up the
same hills we
came down.
He’ll never come back,
there’ll be no horse
tomorrow nor pot
tonight to smoke till dawn.
He’s gone and taken
my morphine with him
Oh Johnny. Women in
the night moan yr. name.
died at 16
put a rifle in his mouth, and laid across his bed at night.
After he held my hand on the way home and said
I will be dead tomorrow.
—-
*
p.s. RIP: Susan Tyrrell. So weird: I was literally putting together a blog post about Susan Tyrrell yesterday, and I went back to her Wiki page at one point to check on something, and her life had suddenly been given an end date. So sad. She was a trip. I always thought someone should have remade ‘Whatever Happened to Baby Jane’ starring her and Grace Zabriskie. ** Oscar B, Thanks, B! Maybe I’ll be seeing you in a few hours? ** Nicki, Hey. Yay, the addiction has set in. Okay, I’ll concentrate on finding ‘Snowtown’ then. Less is more. Well, sure, of course ”s question was legit and more. I hope she or he comes back too. ** Kyler, Danny Kaye! My mom loved Danny Kaye. I grew up with him charging up the background. Thanks! ** David Ehrenstein, Hey. Yeah, those hidden mom pix were a real find, right? Hope all is great with you. ** Paul Curran, Thanks, Paul! Fantastic to get to chat with you for sure. I have some queries out, and I’ll let you know. ** Cobaltfram, Hey, man. Ah, well, I’m going to skip that video entirely then. When you’re a vegetarian, or the kind I am, stuff like that is like watching snuff. When do you estimate you’ll have the section polished up enough to send? ‘I’m growing increasingly to worship my subconscious as some kind of god’: wow, that’s a nice way to put it. Cool. My weekend … uh, worked on my maybe novel, which is still going well. Followed the French parliamentary elections on Sunday. Started organizing and getting the tickets and hotel reservations, etc. for Yury’s and my upcoming shortish summer vacation in Portugal and then in this crazy, amazing spa Therme Val in the heights of Switzerland. Work-related meeting with Gisele. (We start work /auditions/ rehearsals re: our new theater piece this weekend.) Other stuff I don’t remember for probably a good reason. How did the novel and life overall treat you today? Love, me. ** Sypha, Good luck with the gauntlet. Sounds like your vacation will be around the same time as mine. Maybe that’s a mutual good luck sign or something. I do remember that story, yes. That was a character after my own heart or head at least. Yeah, well, good luck with that Bieber album. I’ll get my crucifix and garlic earmuffs ready, ha ha. ** Daniel Portland, Hi! Oh, yeah, maybe that was it. It was, like, a photo of you and another guy in drag, I think, facing each other sort of? You saw Vår, you lucky dog! Damn. I guess they’ll play here. Paris is kind of in their neighborhood. Take care, great Mr. Portland! ** Alan, Ha ha, apparently. What was it about the post in particular that made you consider that? Why the author photo drama? Do they want her to look more official than she wants, or … ? Ah, that’s the thing, right? If you’re in love with a novel that you want to write, you’re kind of powerless. That’s my story. You just have to trust the love, I guess. I’m very happy to hear that, as you can imagine. ** Bill, Ha ha, yep. No, I didn’t know about that Excel egg. I don’t even know if I have Excel. Maybe. I’ll find out. Yay! Your weekend sounds pretty sweet really. Mine was sweet too, I think. Maybe semi-sweet, too much rain and some new internet hog moving into the Recollets being the bitter. ** Memoirs of a Heroinhead, Shane, old buddy! You must have felt my longing for you over there in Lyon. Awesome to see you! Wow, that’s like a job job, I mean capital J job and everything. It even sounds kind of interesting, at least to a layabout like me. Well, maybe the hand slashing part is a little nerve-bunching. Really great about the writing! You sound like you’re totally on fire. And your blog looks beautiful. It always did, but now it has this being inside a cave entrance kind of look and vibe, which you know I would be into. Me, yeah, you know me, I’m always up to doing something. I don’t think anything that I’m doing would shock you. You got ‘TMS’ cool, thanks. Uh, hope you don’t need to use your powers of loyalty on it. Anyway, man, this is great — you here, you and me shooting the shit together across this lovely country and inside this crazy blog again. A whole heck of a lot of love to you! ** Ian Tuttle, Thanks about the post, man. That book ‘The Gift’ does sounds really interesting. Hunh. Shall I look for it? Yes. Yeah, there’s a shitload of porn flashes in the Disney cartoons. I think I did a post or most of one about them at some point. Great ‘Snow White’ one as I recall. Excellent day to you, sir. ** 5STRINGS, Like Bill said, Gang of Four are way not Oi. Way more tricky, angular. My Plato visit would have been pre-pothead, I think. Or, wait, post pot, pre-LSD, I think. I think he really wasn’t cool when I was at a tender age. I think it was all Sartre back then. And Timothy Leary, ha ha. I never had a stepdad. I just had my mom’s step-dates, and not many of those. One was a priest or ex-priest or something. He actually joined in on family dinners and stuff. He had that creepy, sociopathic priest way of talking to you. Clichy is especially kind of like its own town inside Paris. More than the other areas that seem like that. There’s this part of the Marais that’s like that too. Not the famous part. Actually, the loft parts of ‘TMS’ are set there. Oh, I didn’t get to read the rest of your story yet. Yesterday got swamped. I’ll get to read it today. Like early evening. More like late afternoon, actually. Killian’s book is off the hook, yep. Ken’s too. I was a Pluto man as well! High five! I wish everybody talked like him. ** Emily Louise Church, Hey! Oh, that’s okay. Moving is so horrible. I hate it. Did you have to move out of London ‘cos of money stuff? Shit, that’s a rude question maybe, so never mind. The outside of Circus Circus is cool. And the kind of shitty amusement park under the
dome inside is kind of weird in a cool way. But otherwise, wow, it’s like Tea Party central. I used to always stay at the Luxor until they de-cheesified it and tried to make it elegant, which ruined it. Then I always stayed at New York, New York ‘cos … it was the cheapest one that wasn’t depressing? ‘Cos it has a roller coaster on its facade? The one that’s shaped like a castle is really depressing too. You saw Cher. Good pick, very Vegas but with a twist or something. I think I want to see a magician next time. ** Steevee, Ha ha, Roggenbuck is becoming such a phenom that it almost wouldn’t shock me if Bieber and he did a double boost. ** JoeM, How about that? I mean about Shane showing up as if our mention was a Siren. You saw all the superhero movies. I think I did too on airplanes. I can’t remember which ones I liked and didn’t. Oh, I do remember that the Green Lantern was really bad. I have a bead on that Meek movie now. Thanks, Joe. I didn’t know or remember that Epstein and Orton went out in the same year. Strange. Did they all know each other, all those smart, clever, groovy queer English cultural, London-based dudes? ** Postitbreakup, Oh, thanks, Josh! ** Misanthrope, Holy shit, like, pantsed naked? When I think pantsed, I just think trousers only, harmless fun. Yikes. That child has evil in her. Sande came to you via Harry fucking Styles? Okay, I’m about 90% less inclined to search her out now, ha ha, sorry. Not that I have a clue about Mr. Styles’ taste in things. I’m totally stereotyping him. Shaun Cassidy was into Patti Smith and Bowie when he was big and when they were still the edge. So, there you go, or there I go. Vincent Kartheiser could easily have mainstreamy tastes. He probably takes acid and listens to The Shins and goes whoa, trippy! ** MANCY, Hey, man! Thanks about the post, of course, and fuckin’ A, awesomeness supreme about the acceptance by the U of W! Great! For the fall or when? Congrats, pal, that’s so good to hear! Consider my tangled fingers at your beck and call. ** Chris Dankland, Ha ha, right. Can the Boost be far behind the Biebz? Yeah, Shane Jones’ rough ride to publication is a total inspirational story. And now he’s at fucking Penguin! His new one’s real good. I liked ‘The Wind Up Bird’. I think that was the Murakami that I liked the best. I’m still waiting until the Bolano mania dies down a bit before I read him. Sebald is fucking great, right? Damn, that guy was good. I was just rereading him the other day. Ace that you’ll get to see Ben Kopel. If you talk to him, say hey for me, if you feel like it. I don’t know him really, but we’ve exchanged emailed hellos. Let me know how that is. ** Hyrule Dungeon, Cool, I’m glad the links helped. You need to get over here and see some of that stuff up close. Castellucci might well get over to you. He’s kind of the big European theater dog right now. Wow, fantastic that you put new writing online! I’m excited to read that, and the formatting/ form stuff looks amazing. Thanks a ton from a fan. Everyone, the seriously really fantastic Hyrule Dungeon has put some of his new writing out there for all of us to read, and this rare treat can be had right here. Click that thing, and you’ll be really glad that you did the second the page opens, guaranteed. I’ll be over there in just a while. Really, thanks a lot, J. Great day to you. ** Schlix, Hi, Uli. I’m so glad you’ll get to be in Berlin. We can figure out a meeting place and time, etc. between now and then. Great! Ugh, I hope helping your father isn’t too hellish. That Larry Clark show looks like it might be the same one that was here in Paris. Interesting, the paint throwing. Curious looking article on that. I couldn’t figure where the writer was coming from, but I’ll read carefully it in a minute. Take care, man. ** Bollo, Hi. You’re home. That show looks cool. I don’t know that artist, I don’t think? Everyone, courtesy of artist extraordinaire Bollo, here’s part one of a video tour of a cool, eerie art show in Norway called “if you go down to the woods” by the artist Magnhild Opdøl that he helped put together and that both he and I recommend you visit. Nacho pizza? Hold on while I construct its phantom version. Okay, I’m down with that. You got a Nespresso machine! I think of that as being so French even though it isn’t. You can’t go five minutes here without seeing George Clooney hock those things. Allright, enjoy the fruits of Ireland today, man. ** Okay. Like I mentioned before, I’m on a semi-regular mission now to get the last stuff worth saving from my dead blog onto this blog, and, in today’s case, it’s pretty simple and self-explanatory. Please meet, greet, and enjoy the released hostages, if you will, and I’ll see you tomorrow.
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