self-portrait of the artist as a middle-aged malcontent
(a triptych)
one
i
sat on top of a mountain
rejected
manuscripts
stuck
up my ass
waiting to be included
in
a ‘best poems’ anthology
i
am still waiting
cold, wan, rash
rolled,
soiled pages
weighing
heavily
upon my urethra
two
i
committed myself
to
making a new piece of art
every
day
ended up with sore arms
and a very crowded apartment
three
through the threat of cataracts
detached retinas, missed eye appointments
and intermittent dental care
i see every word as precious
hanging
on each syllabic turn
white
mice in peanut galleries
swinging softly by their tails
in
deluded fog
‘the privileged poor’
my kitchen is
the size of a large closet
my bathroom is
the size of an impossible storage unit
my bedroom is an
equity banned dressing room
I am subsidized
to the tits
and have no more
space for judgment
but I have
enough room
for the hard won
oxymoronic
identificatory
praxis of the privileged poor
for what the
supreme global dwelling place for colonizers call
their democratic
right to shop and to be shopped for
so don’t cry for
me Central America
let no country
that has been
fucked by North American
complicity
shed a tear
for the tremulous fault line of rampant capitalism
as it fucks me
treats me like a
well fed pig
apple in my
mouth
skewer in spit
i spin and
sizzle
awaiting,
stinking, smug, impatient
for the well
cooked
insatiable
excremental excitement
of your gorgeous
hard won
wrath
strolling shot/shouldering love
sitting in the front row alone
driving into film with a backseat lightly grazed by random
cinephiles
he stretches one arm in a pink fleshy triangle over his head
fingertips resting lightly on the top of his right shoulder
soft tips sink nimbly into puffy skin
this faintly discernible intrusion into self
close to the bone
he gobbles devours endures celluloid moments
where he is safe outside the scene
someone onscreen
starts to cry
someone else onscreen puts their hand on the crying
someone’s shoulder
then the crying someone turns to the consoling someone
resting his head so gently on their shoulder
as the tips of the spectators fingers sink further into the
flesh of his own heart
skeletal blades and connecting tissue become crevasses of
desire
his arm stretches toward some unattainable limb - some
bodily matter
he is penetrated so tenderly
his hand is having sex with his shoulder
this unbeatable trust between limb and body - body and limb
in middle age these seconds minutes hours matter
providing erotic detached filmic comfort
still reeling in his mind
all those distant lovers mourning a lack of sexual
forgiveness
making love to their lost selves
fingertips on their shoulder blades
ready for their close-ups
mourning memories of tenderness clawing deep
absolving hollows from self-embargoed love
one
I really hate my poetry today
I hate its lyric sadness and
the way
it wanders with such pomp
through come what may
declaring courage in the face
of doom
detaching from humanity by
describing all the stuff that fills a living room
two
I really hate the way I have
with words
they tumble out in
microscopic herds
rattling my teeth and sending
shivers through my underwear
I really hate the way they
seem to care
about what’s right and wrong
and what seems so damned unfair
and how they always end up
with some citation to some stranger’s pubic lair
three
but most of all I hate the
rhyming couplets
thanking gods for a lack of
exuberance over poetry in quintuplets
so I write in fives just to
piss my sad self off
so I can look in mirrors and
smirk then scowl then scoff
then covet some pricks hat
I’d like to doff
or doff some prick who likes
to covet dicks
but that was five and this is
one past six
four
chairs and lamps and tables
interest me
I should have been a
carpenter like that stud from Galilee
I would have filled the
world with furniture
Instead of furnishing the
world with love
I would have tipped my cap to our Lord Jesus
with one agnostic leather glove
I would have craved some
godly wisdom when push came down to shove
five
but instead I’m here and
hating my poetry so god damn much
just lifting my fingertips to
the keypad is like poison to the touch
but yes, such pretty poison I
can’t seem to get enough of
as one bard said, these are
what make our lives
the stuff that dreams make
muck of
p.s.
so let’s raise a toast to
words and all they say
like shit! goddamn!
and
“kind sir, have you ever
considered becoming, just long enough to kiss me, GAY !!! ? ”
photos, top to bottom; Madame X, Madame Recamier, Eleonora Duse, Martin Sheen, Rupert Brooke
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