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Poems

Solstice

We should have been in by ten but it nearly one in the morning,
and me and the man who are the only two passengers move up
to the last car, where all of are,
fighting of anger fermented from weariness and fear
Made from the despair of sitting in a stalled train at one
in the morning.
A second locomotive flashing by like death’s angel,
rattle rattle in the night and above a yellow moon
Full and sickly as a wolf’s tooth raises itself into the blackened sky
On this night, I offer all this bullshit on the altar of night witch
I offer this and lake water, and your ruined body
when we tried to make love but it didn’t quite work,
I offer all these things, tied in ribbons of weary to the solstice
I offer this long fruitless night and my cramped stomach and
screaming nerves to the bitch of the night who receives
them in greed and greed and more greed
and vomits up bloody blessing.




The lover



You took me to the beach on your fucked up feet,

your bandaged toe, your body is the body of Jesus,

filled up with affliction,s branded in tattoos and wounds

and the memories of beatings, foster homes,

bad marriages and unraised children.

Like the skeleton of a rock and roll man

you stand there on the beach, the gay beach

we have gone to with the rainbow painted pier,

and yu kiss me and I hug you in joy wile we wait for the water.

You say, as you light that cigar,

what my mother never said, that it makes me happy

seeing you happy, and I am happy,

happy for you, happy for the water,

happy to see men and men and men together

on the sand enjoying each other,

happy to see your feet though I’m irritated by your bullshit,

sitting here thinking,

I have to call im, see if he picked up his insulin.

Everything about you is so falsely fragile like an old dead hen,

stretched out and dried for jerky

 
the stop to argyle’s on winona



you apologized for climbing into my window and trying to kill me all those years ago, screaming that I fucked your boyfriend, I fucked your boyfriend. Yo said you just weren’t yourself at the time

I know, oh, I remember.

That weird and toadfaced man, you used to drive with to Chicago and he;d fuck you on the road and on the cornfield, you were a madder, crazier thing then.

And when you look at aaron you , you’re still homophobic, but we’re all homophobic, like something happened, some awful storm, and here we are, trembling and afraid, of each other in a way we never were before.

And we never made it to argyle street, and I am longing to go down argyle street again.



The stop to argyle’s on winona. That’s the first thing that you have to know.



Anywhere



When you start a poem finish it.

I don’t have the energy to go back to a mood I left three days ago,

And I don’t now what poetry is,

but from what ive read no one else seems to either

I just have to get over this get down into it,

it only works at three in the morning,

it only works when I woke up full of energy and once

I sit down at the page I am confronted with an imaginary bitch

on my soudler saying go to sleep again.

But I;ve slept all day, anything else would be uncivilized.

I woke up so grateful,

I woke up thining of you and your squishy face and your pretty

eyes and how love you, though you are rough and ragged

and you love me though you mumble all the time,

and how even on your fucked up foot you endured me and took me

to the beach because I said, we have to go to the gay beach,

we’ve got to go to that beach with the rainbow pier,

and when we got there it felt like any other beach except it

had that particular quality of young gay men, unhappy,

unsocial,and unwilling to get in the water.

We looked like ancient vagabonds, I laughed,

and splashed, you poured water on your head and stood with

your crippled and crucified feet, looking like a modern jesus,

three days deep in cold water, and all around us no one looked

up from their towel or away from themselves,

and everyone is afraid of everyone in this gay world,

and even this beach was as quiet as a tomb.

How can it be that progress led to this?

We can go back to louder waters, chopping waves,

we don’t have to be here now that we no longer care

if we ever did.

I can kiss you anywhere.
 
Love at 3 am,



A grain of wheat aint shit unless it dies

Let me find myself in the loving of you.



This time of morning, the sacred time,

smells like the remains of ripe shit and cigarettes,

reminds me of the bathroom even twenty minutes

after my father left it, shit streaks in the bowl.

He never cleaned a damn thing, left his dirty draws on the floor,

came home smelling of whores and my mother,

degreed and degreed, colleged up to her knees,

never said a word—and ive said enough about them.

She’s dead and he’s safely locked away like all the

foolish things that can’t be left on their own,

and I am siting here, having secured rent for another month

in the place where I make all magic happen,

in the crystal cave where ive done it for years,

reflecting on what wil not be left alone, I eat a donut,

I east scone and make the sacrifice of fat to be a poet.

Before the night’s over I’ll light a candle and burn some incense.

I may let some fresh air onto my mind and into those stuffy place,

while I slept, summer storms boomed like popcorn over us

and blew the humidity away. Part of me is thinking

I should have stayed there in chicago,

should have stayed there to hold your ancient baby body

and kiss your belly. Kiss your shoulders,

stroke your hair, give you a tenderness your ruined

limbs have lacked.

I could have found myself in Chicago,

in the loving of you.

Let me find myself again in the loving of you.

We are still longing for salvation, the complete transformation that is more than optimisitci phrases spoken from a pulpit in church on Sunday. We are practicing a creed that sits on the lip of wonder and shits on anything like cul de sacs and two car garages, we are waiting for the HOC to blow up and pretty green lawns to be burned up in Armageddon.

I know you, and like you I dug up the hidden books, sought the books and theories others scorned, stayed up to five in the morning chanting, waiting for shiva’s torch to sweep through the dark like the brazen fire over abraham’s sacrifice

I learned to trace the six point star and the seven point star, the ate point star

Lift a chalice to heaven, lay naked on the wet grass, spread like a whore

The eleven point star was the hardest

And here in silence we are still waiting.
 
Pride



I did not find it in the rainbow rallies or the family friendly parades only a shadow of the true debauchery of big cities.

I did not find it in nipple clamps and fetishwear

And it wasn’t over there, on a beach with a rainbow pier that was full of straight people,

Only a little queer

I found in the dark dens, with horny men, in orgasmic blow jobs and cigarettes shared with friends

I found it in a red beared come correct stranger with a country cock the size of a sausage that barely fit my mouth and almost broke me in two

Found it in the rocking of the bed as we shook and took each other at last

And the journey was shut, in the baptism of his nut, glazing my back and ass

I am most proud when I am on my knees





offering



While the sky is still grey like the funeral of a pearl

Before the world is truly up, when the sun is wiping sleep from its eyes, light the last candle, handle the silence that threatens like a dog

Over the old coffee, the remains of the joint and the puff of the leftover midnight cigarette, cease worry for all earthly things

Like the priest king make your offering.
 
Lovers like second rate jesus



1.



Its not that you left, but the way you all did,

untraceable men, then you pop out of the air,

like prophets of old

like you never left

And now that you are in the system I can find you,

now that you are worn out I find you easily at the end of the train line,

you almost whine, “when are you coming back? when are you coming back?”

After I’ve dragged your carcass with your bandaged feet to the beech,

your long beautiful hurt feet, your crippled self,

we make bad love in that one room apartment near

the el tracks and you can’t even get it up.

They put you on a new drug, and it’s got you a little fucked up

and your mumble, “I’m broken, I’m broken”

but you were broken years before.



2.

So when Adam came to my house, and his dick started to grow in my mouth, larger than a summer sausage, when we were making love on the bed, and under me his eyes in his hollowed face widened like an el Greco saint seeing the mystic vision,

I loved him because he was naked, shaking and moaning.

I thought, later as he rolled a blunt,

now, you clearly have a type.

As I photographed him like a photographed you,

naked in my house, long and thin,

el Greco saint francis thin,

with a dong like a sausage, and trouble in his brain, I thought…

Well, clearly I have a type.

My type never went to a pride parade

cause he just got out of prison

and across his stomach some shit I can’t trouble to read is calligraphyed,

and his breasts are anointed with prison pictures and he lies for no reason

and disappears.

When he rises again he is full of marijuana and repentance.

That thin body I cling to all night,

I could love you totally if you would love yourself
 
3.

And how the fuck could you be anything but what you are?

Before you were twelve some preacher opened his mouth and said,



“I will banish the names of the faggots so that they will be remembered no more. I will also rid the land of the prophets of dis ease. If you keep talking your shit, your father and mother, will say “You will not live, for you have uttered lies in the name of the Lord.” And while he is prophesying, his parents, his own father and mother, will pierce him through.



So on that that day, you were ashamed to relate your own prophetic vision, sent into homes, detention centers, jails, prison fuckings and backroom blowjobs, waiting for a motherfucker to make you say: “I am no prophet.

I am a tiller of soil.”



And when in the night, I brushed my hand over your and asked,

“What are these wounds on your chest?”

You said:



“I got them in the house of my friends.”



And tell me why all my lovers look like jesus, look like saints chased into holes and caves, half persecuted, persecuting, hollowed eyed and half jibbering, crucified on the cross of this world. Tell me why I long to wash your feet and anoint your head in oil, and last time. And remember the first time, when I came to Chicago, and the second time, and finally the third time, when in the middle of the night, the light became a spark, and silence was pierced by the loudness of fucking and you let out a groan and we both christened each other in the most ancient oil of all, and like saul’s son and david we slept together till the sun came up, and I say, and you say”


Amen

Amen


Why I roll over and return to sleep



at two in the morning you message and tell me

you could use some head and some ass

and I could provide both and no matter

what I like and no matter what I love

and no matter what a slut ive been and am

and ever shall be, I roll over and go to sleep

because its odd that two graduate degrees,

and forty years plus seven in this life you think

that I exist to do what your hand could do,

and that this is what I plan to do,

and that is why,

tonight,

I do not answer



Everything’s new on Sunday



Everything’s new on Sunday

I don’t know how you feel about that,but there you are

Everything’s new on Sunday, and this quiet house,

this silent kitchen with e am grey yellow snnlight

coming in feels like the beginning of the world’

We can make everything again

Take a rib from a man and be women again

See the snake again and bite the apple

Commi the first murder again

And then, get ready for the flood

Or deep in your blood, swim red and swim

To where the river meets the sea

Dive down hard and pull up the possibility

Of new and terrifying things.
 
It’s the first of july and it is freezing

it is the first of july and I’m tired trying to find my daily bread,

and tired scratching my head for where the rent is going to come,

I just relaxed from figuring it out before.

I get so tired of being poor,

I get so tired of not fitting in this world,

weary of all these useless people



Make a list, write down all the things that matter

Stop pretending, stop being a character

learn to live on determination,

suck it up like soup and bread,

paint your head with all your fucking visions

redeem them from the inside of your eyelids.
 
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