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Poems

Thanks. you made me read it again, and I think I can make it better. I'm glad you enjoyed reading
 
sunday morning after putting your father
in a nursing home

This is the morning for the roast chicken you dreamed
of. We won’t always write of grand things,
or rather what is grand is made up of this moment,
made up of garlic and the skin so coated in butter
and sage it sticks when you touch it, made up of the
saltiness of things.

This moment is made up of the blankness like guilt
when twelve weeks after your mother died, for the first
time you cannot and do not call your father to check in,
he was at the hospital and then, kicking and complaining
went to the nursing home, and as you nurse this bone,
and suck the last of the chicken off this leg you remember
how all your life you had no choice in anything and
you were dragged from thing to thing with little
mercy by people who did whatever, and now whatever is happening to one of those, you are sitting here,
clipping your toes, breathing the air of this strange
freedom


the bronze age

i.
On Radio 4 they are talking about the Bronze Age
collapse and I am so excited.
The creaking side to side of Santorini while the sky
explodes above and spits red mud to Egypt where
Moses raises his rod, one old god coming after all the others, Myceneans, men of means, philistines,
pillaging the coast lands, the city of Troy and all its joy collapsing to a wood horse, and my mind flashes
at the end of an age
but as I light a cigarette and sigh
I
Know
I would not like to be there
Twenty degrees
Then ten degrees
Then institutions on their knees, lines of poverty, lines of bread
Lines of suffering on your head
When the iron age collapsed, did anyone know it, or did they light their cigarette and drink their coffee and look out of a window?

2.
Surely we are in the bronze age, not having graduated to gold, feet and arms and hair still powdered with the age of dust.
Surely you knew how much you meant to me,
surely I am just coming together after all these days that curled upon themselves like question marks.
We sat in the dark until you lit one ragged candle and shone light on this shabby room,
and the room is a church and the church
is a house and the house is a tomb
I…
I shake my head, and do confess I do not know.

3.
We sat in the dark until you lit one ragged candle and shone light on this shabby room,
and the room is a church and the church
is a house and the house is a tomb
I…
I shake my head, and do confess I do not know.


I am waiting for you to anchor me and make these things better, I cannot deceive myself. I have no more sense than this. Once upon a time we were almost angels, once again I was almost a child
a tune plays in the background, wait one moment and I will remember what it was

Before you on the table are two disks and a pack of tarot cards, one half smoked cigarette and the memory of lost things. Don’t try to figure them out, do not try to find yourself, content yourself in being lost, what you were before was only a deception
 
Oh, I'm glad you said both of those things. Emotion and thought were probably what were going through my mind with both of them. I guess all poems are reflective, but those especially so.
 

The last time I had sex with you

The last time I had sex with you,
you had been coming over every few days,
and nothing had happened between us since
your reappearance.
This was before so much would happen to me.
I put you in the shower and we washed and it we
knew each other so well,
were so used to each other we put no clothes on.
The opportunity for sex was always in the air
as calm as breathing, calm as breathing we lay on the bed.
I touched your shoulder, you didn’t ask.
I wouldn’t beg,
I took you in my mouth.

in the full light of the room, as plain as talking,
we fucked
and came,
and then lay silently together before,
naked you went to the kitchen and made a sandwich,
which I knew—somehow—would be the last time I saw you.

I took six pictures.


when you get to chicago

When you get to Chicago, and it starts to rain
Stay on that train,
Stay on that train
It is 5 am, you’ve got nothing to do
Stay on that train
Stay on that train
His shirt was green
His eyes were blue
You looked at the way he was looking at you
You kept and appointment, got off at your stop
The doors dropped, the doors dropped,
Even now you think about that man
The next morning you hoped to see him again.
When you get to Chicago and it starts to rain
Stay on that train
Stay on that train
 

when words are more than enough

We write to the end of these things, we write till there is nothing left to say. How much more can you keep on typing about the geese on the water, or death in the city?
How long can you keep on reporting all that goes on in this small building, and wondering what you’ve missed? And after that, how long can you tell the story of what was not, cross the eyes and put the tees on dots? How long, poet, until there’s nothing left to say?

Just to have a word, just to have a word, just to have a word, you’d be like some false Elijah, a pigeon or crow or any bird that’s squinted at enough will be the holy spirit. You tried to squeeze inspiration from nothing, because nothing was the one thing you could not dare to do.


this is what i mean

You and me, we tried philosophy, we tried to gather up the fragments of our feelings before we learned they were nothing, We pinned them up in corsets and cravats,
that’s the mistake,
when in the end what we longed for was the squeezing of need, fucking indeed,
our two bodies pressed together in the 3 am bed,
giving of head,
explosion

I could not explain to them how it is not that I love you
better than the rest, well, I do but I could not explain the why, how my mind opens to you and yours open to me
and your senseless songs are music to me
and in the moment of madness when I know your thoughts
and finish your sentences there is a unity which is love,
which is more than limping and guessing and gasping.
We are so many together.
See our humping and grasping.
See, this is what I mean, this is what I mean

sabbato domingo

I’m going to revive Sunday again
I’m going to wake up, my friend,
and go to mass early with the
sunrise and go to bed
with the sunrise and sleep till noon.
I’m going to drink beer all day,
roll over and say the day is done
in the way begun
It will be more than rest,
I will be my own guest in the easy
world of wonder.
 
enough

I thought I’d been too gentle to
myself but the truth I was never
gentle enough,

We lie about and lounge all day
without a single word to say

song of ascent

In the third week we are coming
closer to Jerusalem,
and here is what
they did not know:
All of life is Jerusalem,
and Jerusalem is in the
center of us all.


spikenard

now we come to the middle of things,
see how we and Jesus draw close to Jerusalem
and Jerusalem is everything we see while
Christ lives in the lust of all our bodies,
Passion,
three days before the day before
Mary spills a jar of nard and whispers hard
and holy in our ears:

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the fucking road, it never ends,
Jerusalem, Jerusalem, this is the door, pilgrim
This is the way until you die.
This is the pilgrim way of how you…
This is how you die.


silence

i’m tired of young white men talking
i’m tired of half black girls talking on podcasts
i’m tired of podcasts and talking
i am walking to the black door and past that
door there is no noise

I dreamed of your naked body,
and I was tangled in your hair and drunken kisses
and my face was pressed against your stubble
and your rumbled but you did not speak
You had the sense to say and be nothing


doors

I know I should be sleeping but there is still
too much to say.
I cram everything in to the closing of the day
and the place of darkness beyond darkness, you don’t dare
say the beginning of a word in this place beyond darkness
I used to know what I was saying too,
but I don’t know anymore
I used to take chalk and crayons and draw on the ground till I grew bold and drew on doors
.

apollo

I have lost on the tip of my tongue all I had to say, I have forgotten advice for prophecy at the opening of the day
The day is like the dying is like the loving is the opening
up to that first time.

the night enters in,
enters in like a black robed stepchild,
and it’s only when night enters night
and night enters night it breaks into the grey dawn
the grey dawn, the grey dawn, the faded moon
and budding sun,
and now this very originary world is Apollo
and a serpent dance
and in this ordinary world and the present
and its romance
we will be waking,
but not just yet,
not just…

benjamin

I loved him before I loved all others and still do.
He said to me
From across the country:

“I decided I was being Hamlet about work. And I should be Boxer instead.
I will worker harder, and not in irony as an indictment of neoliberal meritocracy.

“I’m repeating over and over in my head ‘I have nothing but gratitude. I have nothing but gratitude’

“To deprogram myself from a depression that I got myself onto.
And ‘I am the happiest man in the universe’.

Oh fine. happier than I deserve.”

Seattle… should be fun.
And maybe it will be fun again in the future.

And I said
I may be too simple with all my talk of fucking
Bucking away from the greater matters of philosophy
But sometimes you must fill the sea of longing first
What you need to do is take off your clothes,
be as naked as a baby and curl up in bed like a fetus with a lover, ejaculate your seed like a glue shower of need
between someone else’s thighs and be soothed in their arms,
have your hair stroked like Samson minus
the Delilah, come, come again,
trust
thrust
and
trust.
 
pagan

i.

I don’t want to hear about Jesus. I don’t mean I’m tired of him
but I’m tired of people talking about him.
I want to hear the new mythology
which is the old mythology.
Teach me about the gods,
give me the new and other religion, for this one’s record wasn’t so good,
give me the religion of blossom and wood and Dionysus,
nut in the cup and wine in the jar.
Titans at battle,
tablets afar with their commandments
Teach me to worship golden calves
Bless me when I bow down to idols


ii.

I know sooner or later I’m going to show up back here again
I could almost smell the sea in the air, I was almost at the sea hut.
I can’t remember all the prayers we said on our knees,
in a house without light or incense waiting for the miracle of the third day.
I just know that they worked,
I just know the yellow moon in the black sky,
half gone
and the kingdom misremembered.
We have to get to the end of this thing.
It’s been too long
We have to give up this dream and learn another song
In another place I wept for what could no longer be
Here in this world, my goddaughter paints my face
in make up
and washes it like luxury and I see that Easter
is a round thighed
goddess with mighty breasts,
Easter is the sprig of grass humbly placed in her hands and her paleothic smile
All the protestants who could not stay for mary,
if only they could say a while to look upon the ancient thighs
and breasts and face of the Mother’s mother,
would they be relieved?

iii.

I burn benzoin and it makes the frankincense linger.
I light the lamps at the altar and sit in quiet, beholding you.
It was you we waited for and your holy resurrection,
if was you we needed and all of the affection that had died,
the attention we had not paid, the wisdom unlearned,
we turned now to you. It was not that you had not come,
but that as yet we had not begun to see you.
Everywhere you step, give us now a flower
Every minute you inhabit,
Unfold into an hour, and at this silent altar
Prayer for us be mother, table, sister,
be here at the hour of our death.

In the humility of need and reverence I love you
In the humility of need and reverence he fucks me,
On hands and knees and silently like supplicants of old
My legs reach up, enfold as once you enfolded me
when I came to you, came in you,
came silently, shot out the day.


Let all mortal flesh keep silence
And with fear and trembling stand
In the presence of this nothing
Wordlessness is the command
 
bathroom adonis



1.

In this song let me call you adonis

Stroking
At the same time begins to stroke and at the same time touching
They don’t look at each other, just at the ceiling, then at the blackness of their own closed eyelids until, at last,
He rolls over to kiss you and, in the end, the underwear is gone and limbs link.

Oh, he is soft, The boy thinks. Oh his kiss is just what I wanted. I could gather him up and be in his arms and feel his body, these thick thighs, this soft, sweet skin, this warmth, oh God, the beauty of a shaved head, of cheeks not shaved for a couple of days, of those eyelids and the mouth, the generous mouth, oh, those hands up and down me.

And oh, the hair on his legs, so gentle, the perfect length of legs, the firmness of his ass, the dent in the small of his back, oh his back, His beautiful man gathers as much of him as possible between his thighs, pulls his face down to kiss him in the dark, to luxuriate in his kiss, in his kiss, in his firm kiss, in his tongue thrust into his mouth, tasting gently of beer and the memory of cigarettes and spearmint gum, in the tangling curls of his hair.
“I love you.”
It slips out of his mouth like a surrender. He never tells it to a lover and has never believed it from lovers in the past.
How tender it sounds when Adonis boy says it too.
“Be inside me,” his man says.

The whole apartment is quiet and dark. The only sounds are small, the small creaking and giving way of the bed, of little moans and gasps. If one was there to watch you could see them, burrowed into the corner of the bed like a ball, Adonis, white assed, on hands and knees, dark haired thighs bunched as he kneels, gathering his beloved to him, his brown thighs around Adonis’s waist as, greeted by a long grown he enters. They fit together in tender gasps, his hands rubbing his back, and finally, slow at first, and then with steady rhythm, piston like, Adonis fucks him.

“I’m about to come,” Adonis tells him. “I’m about to come.”
“Come inside of me.”
“Are you…?”

But his man is pulling him in, and The boy has not stopped, and he cannot stop. His body freezes and then jerks, and his man feels him pumping, pulsing, feels the slick semen coming between his thighs. He cradles The boy’s damp head to his, kissing Adonis’s trembling face, feeling his own hardness, knowing he will do the same to the boy before the night is over. He cannot say he’d always wanted to do this because he cannot say this was planned. Adonis, gasping, reluctantly unlinks from him, and they hold each other, lying face to face, unable to speak.

2.


I mourn it, and I don’t know why. I understand the regret that comes from things you’ve done that never get repaired, but not the regret from things that, in the end turned out quite alright. I know everything that was going on that night on Adonis’s side, but what in the world was going on with me? What did I expect? When we said, let’s go to the bedroom, when I turned off the light, surely I knew what I was doing. Or did I just want to lie next to him and feel the heat of his body? And what is the difference, really, between wanting his presence and wanting to make love?

It was almost one in the morning when I walked him down, his guitar over his shoulder. We held hands, his thumb rubbing the inside of my palm, I his. My apartment is on the second level and a stair whose smell I can’t quite describe leads down to the little foyer or whatever where there are two more doors to other apartments, and the glass door leading to the street. There we hug for a long time, and then he kisses me, and says, “Don’t forget Sunday.”

As he gets into his car and heads down the street, I feel the regret of not asking him to stay. Maybe I thought it would happen on Sunday, or maybe I’d been with so many men I didn’t want to stay that I couldn’t realize how much I wanted to wake up with this one until he was gone. All through the night the regret was an ache that turned into yearning and longing. Even after I had showered and lay in bed thinking of work in the morning, I could still feel that boy inside of me.


3.

“I know what I did was wrong—” he begins.
But he unzips his pants the same time he goes to his
knees and begins blowing him.
“Oh my… God.”
The boy closes his eyes and wishes he could turn out
the light, keep the fluorescence from passing through his eyelids.
He presses the back of his hands to the door and makes
sure it locked.

He wanted this again. He wanted his lover, and he
wanted to put his hands on his scalp and massage it
and feel that particular mouth on his particular cock,
pulling him in so deep,
making him swell, his tongue touching everything.

His beloved stands up
and pulls down his pants,
and,
his dick so hard it almost hurts,
the boy moves to the sink.

He gather’s his thighs around his waist,
feels his chest pressed to his,
his lover’s arms wrapped about him,

and watches his own face while he fucks him, and then has to stop watching because he feels
he is violating himself, violating this moment and turning
it to porn.

They don’t say anything, though now and again
The boy rubs his phlegm on his swelling cock to make things
smoother.
They are pressed together,
and the boy’s bearded cheek is rubbing against his dark lover.

“You make me so helpless,” he groans as he fucks him.
Then he pleads, “Please, let me come in you. Please.”
The beloved reaches back for a handful of hair
and Adonis closes his mouth, grunting as he comes.

He feels himself shooting and shooting past the tightness into
the space and the
peace that is the heart of him,
even as his lover feels the slickness,
the pump pump
pump of Adonis’s semen.
Suddenly, caught off guard by his own response,
he pushed Adonis’s shirt up and the boy feel, hot and spurting,
the young fountain of his beloved’s ejaculation against
his chest his stomach. As he comes, he trembles in his lover’s arms,
and in that little bathroom that is the whole world,
fragile,
they shake together.

They remain pressed together,
Adonis embracing him,

There is a place, a dimension of space
Where they never will let go.
 
One long sexy poem, or several sexy poems. Not entirely sure. Too sexy? I hope not. Hopefully just sexy enough.
 
Going to Chicago



The truth is he had nothing of intelligence to say

Stupid as the stars he said things and we shook our heads and didn’t listen’

didn’t want to listen, but then fuck it, it could hardly be helped

we heard what we heard

last night I sat in a church of the hopeless, the concrete train station under the the park, under the ground, while Chicago shut down

third largest city in the country , acting like a county

the city of mayor daley

dull as mayberry, ghostly shuttings all around, shutting down at six o clock while we sat on the dock waiting for a train that one man finally came out of an office and said wasn’t coming

and I said, I said it later when I sat on a train that promised to be an hour and half ride but took three hours

said at it approached on in the morning

look, that just goes to show, you never trust the summer solstice

and a full moon, yellow as fuck was adoring the sky

I took out tarot cards, and shook my head

Said, didn’t get the warning, this was just no fucking time to travel



Unravel for me why all my plans feel apart,

and I found myself looking at an old virgin mary through a plastic tarp,

the sacred house we came to visit, why is covered all in plastic.

No one said anything about that.

I grew up Catholic and Catholic stay.

I wanted to be a good Episcopalian,

but their fucking churches are always shut.



I am coming to love you

But I don’t know how

You are going to want me

Lets not make this sour

You say, are we going to that parade? You know its june?

Are we going to that event in the park?

I say, I can’t do that, but what else?

Anything else you say

But hopefully its gay

And I think, aside from this all I know is backrooms

There is a unicorn riding a rainbow wrapped in glitter

And he’s galloping to the woods at night when he suddenly goes dark

Blowjobs in the park

Fucking under bushes and the new orgasmic spark of drugs

And poppers

Your mother took you to a place of face paints and flower crowns

But I’ll take you where the men get on their knees to go down on you

And all your questions end in the climax of your coming

The bottomless bism of your jism which sends

The straight men running and fags singing show tunes

Longing, longing to be something else less crippled by dark visions
 
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