Saturday, September 1, 2012


self-portrait of the artist as a middle-aged malcontent 
(a triptych)

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

            i committed myself
            to making a new piece of art
            every day
ended up with sore arms
and a very crowded apartment

           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

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

five reasons why I really hate my poetry today

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

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

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

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

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

so let’s raise a toast to words and all they say

like shit! goddamn!


“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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