Trangressive. Counterculture. Interpretivist.
Dearest Man, Cry, sometimes, The private retreat of your alluvial heart, Anger makes a man of you, Slash with a butcher-knife those moods you cage, Bottled-up for our benefit. Until the kettle whistles. Absent rhyme or reason, your madness comes neat. Grab that pallid filthy skin on a coat rack with missing teeth, Detest your … Continue reading When in doubt, cry
Enter: You with baptismals and living mothers, For whom the bells toll, At whom the crickets of the veldt titter, Even that swollen savage, fat in the Saharan sun, Even my father and his useless red-clay gods, Even the preacher on evening walks, Casting out a million cankerworms. Enter: Those never somethings, Those never nothings. … Continue reading Fleurs du Mal
Boy, ask not what it be to be a man, Black, Here comes the white casket, an excellent fiction. Here comes the bastard in the story, The ballad man they called, Mr. Black F. Masculine, Seize a stool, boy, B. F. Masculine, will daze you.
The women are commas, Apostrophes, question marks, Ellipses, exclamations, Brackets, bullets, Vowels, consonants, Virgins, widows, Bandages, electric eels, Spices, months of the year, Deja vu's, the Fibonacci sequence.
Miracle if she knows, That I stole a bad dosage of that taboo sex, With a manic bisexual minx and her silver tools. I wonder if her stainless beak can smell that psychosis, The malady represented, The semblance of things done to me, for me, By a woman ambitious, A woman taking initiative, A woman … Continue reading To Abide a Good Wife
Believe it, Faulkner wrote me, He asked for the heads of my sons. Not Aikel - ugly writer boy, Weakling and winner of one essay, Who rocks quietly in the dark, But the golden duo - Ukiah and Lemai, Fetching, lovers of new wine, Slaughterers of swine, betters of Aikel. Dandelion-haired in the sun. Their … Continue reading Faulkner Wrote Me
Men are allowed to cry. To leak into damp dreams, To long for the one never gotten, Hunt down the ones hardly so, And still smell the ceaseless vacancy, It’s all right to talk blades out of open wrists, And be finished in a quaking crowd. To be just drained enough, And still supply sound … Continue reading Men are Allowed to Cry
