IT WASN'T ANY ROMANCE ABOUT GROVELING DOWN THERE ON THE
WHITE TILES, PRAYING TO THE WHITE BOWL GODS AND GODDESSES
It wasn't falling for Dylan Thomas sitting
in the White Horse Tavern, imagining his
full lips on a glass of gin or enthralled at
Gaslight Cafe with my mother and sister hear
ing a real poet read, Tuli Kuperberg at the
table nearby explaining breath to my mother as
boys from Ceylon tried to pick my sister up.
Or hearing Kerouac read when I was in highschool
and checking out his strut, his swagger, how he guzzled
amber light from a flask. It was sheer terror, it
was living like a nun and then doing the word strip
tease for gawkers sure each verb was skin. Not surprising
to be in a Ladies Room on the way back the morning after
in Ohio or Florida or Texas or California, a contact
lens lost or scratchy, half amazed I haven't left a
trail of velvet. Not on the floor exactly, as if I was
giving the commode a long deserved blow job but wishing
I could curl up in one of the few stalls someone had
flushed, not one of the barrels of beige or rose or
cloudy yellow--pull the paper towel roller until I had a pallet
on the floor like in the folksongs, better than the soft squishy beds
I've had to take all my books in my suitcase to lie down on. Too hard
is better than too soft I always say. Maybe I could roll the machine for
wads of Kotex for a pillow, freeze frame the cool morning while the
world around me flushes like the waterfall outside my bedroom in
Middlebury, let the morning blur as the night did
HE LIKES THE CHASE, A SAFARI IN THE JUNGLE, A TRAILING ON THE
INTERNET
the imagined swell of
breasts and nipples,
dangerous as any
waltz of meat
with jaguars or
lions, bright as the
bracelet a torn
deer leaves in grass.
A virtual lover who
won't ask him to
change the diapers or
get a job, skin he
can imagine pushing,
shipwrecking in.
He wants a woman hard
to touch, one he can
imagine wet skin skid
on skin with, some
one who'll type out
silk and lace he can
imagine the swell
of, his wife in the
other room. He wants to
be seduced by strokes
of her keys, thru
wires, modem, a pull to
the screen, captivating
as blue water off
Big Sur cars seem lured
to plunge into
"LORENA HEARS DIVINE
is doing ads in Brazil in her
underwear whispering,"wear this...
or else..." and she wonders if
she's been a bit too reclusive,
too shy, sort of a South American
Emily Dickinson behind if not
New England lace, venetial blinds
in Virginia. A manicurist, she
shrugs, probably makes a lot less
than a whore, especially a
whore doing lingerie com
mercials and wishes she'd
photographed herself with her
little lost bird, her dick for a
day, her bloody squirmy sparrow.
If she could approach some
Chicago Cutlery, put on a micro
mini,--her legs she's noticed
are better than Divine's and she
could order a Victoria's Secret
push up or pose like Marilyn on red
satin or silk, pout and whimper, "if
you don't get treated, ladies,
like you're a cut above the rest,
you can make a clean cut of it"
IN MY MOTHER'S LAST HOURS
Murray always loved you
I blurted out when she
gasps, asks if he is
mad at her. I do too
Mama, I love you so and
she shakes her head, no.
Close to dying the
book says, many do not
want to look backward,
or remember. Yesterday
I folded the photograph
of her mother I'd left
near the bed that she
looked past. I think
how I left her on
Saturday to wash my
hair in the room across
the hall, had someone
else sit with her that
if I'd known soon I
could wash my hair
ever day I could
have waited
HARD
slipped thru the
back door of
skin not
banging down
exactly you
knew I wanted
and slid my legs
honey open. But
I could see your
eyes were as
hard as your
penis
JESSE HELMS
I wasn't saying any
thing disrespectful
when I said Clinton
should have a body
guard. Well do you
see who's in the
U.S. of American
army lately? Gays
and colored. I
wouldn't go to a
base without a
body guard. I just
wanted to help Billy.
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