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Poems

iv. the most impractical of things


i write like someone who's in flight
one day i'll have to put all this together.
one day i’ll piece this bit that I wrote with the last bit and the bit before that. One day i'll bring it all tgoether.
poetry is the most raggedy of things
no story was ever written like this.


Our story never was these single lines, and all the times i sat there with cigarette and a coffee cup and looked up to the blue sky over the brick wall that stands across from me, always we were about this silent poet's life
and last time we went to the water we came back so weary and so fed up it was going to be a long time before we went back, and now the time has come to go back again, will we ever go back again? Will we baptize our heads in the waters?


A poet is the most impractical thing, because you see, i am not writing about politics. I am writing about this silent space, and about this moment of peace, this rug on the floor that needs to be pulled back, the other one rolled at the door to keep the hot air and mice away, everything i say applies to these four walls and six big windows, has no meaning past the bathroom, words woven on this loom will have no use to you and yet
somehow
they do






The Lovers I Have Known

chris

Hey chris, newcastle top dog. I have no idea why you called yourself that, and it’s not that the years have treated you kindly or that you were that much, only that I wanted to say “hi!” because I wanted you to remember how we fucked. I remembered that day on the mattress in the backroom of my new house and how proper you were before we got down to it on my mattress.
you had a green shirt like the forest and khaki pants on
and you were on your way to a job interview, or had you come from it?
you came like syrup or like the circle of gloop from a bottle of glue
And then I came too, when we consecrated that room
that summer.


the boy of a our dreams

If you can you can make me well, this is why you always asked, do you want to be healed? and do you want to see? These days I am taking time to learn about how I feel about my blindness, these moments I am sounding out my sickness,
the thickness of my resistance.
You have made all things new, but this is what I’M afraid of,
maybe give me one thing new, and leave me to my own devices.
I dreamed last night of the beautiful boy with his ivory skin
and tawny hair and his face that looked like it was carved out of sleepy insolence,
he was as narrow as a dream and lightly muscled, and his smirk was a kiss and as we made love in the closed bedroom his eyes widened and he cried out “I’m coming”,
so he came like a crushing river,
oh that old feeling
his exploding that ends in collapse and the naps in your lovers arms

And now, I spend my morning, sorting through memories and half dreams
looking for him


I’m not above anything
You can only feel that way before you’ve lived
I never laid with a king, but I’ve known bums and homeless men,
and lain with them in strange and crazy places,
if I wondered about it and you wandered around,
believe you me,
I found a way to do it.
This is the day when men are done with doing
But there was a time when heat was all around and we always found each other

Four a.m.
Pot and gin, you sweating between two men,
The bed was always straining,
You walked out naked, I walked in next
No dignity remaining

Shame is a wool jacket in the summer heat
It never did us good.
Now I’m a virgin again through no fault of my own
I spent all day chanting in the temple, what happened is real simple
All my lovers lost their minds,
they went to jail,
they shot up lines,
they slept in cemeteries,
the madness in them varies,
they walked around with uncharged phones, clinking like the dead mens’ bones
and now I sit her all alone and unfucked



We are all here together, we are nothing,
we are not the things we have assembled,
our sadness is in our dust, but let this be our gladness,
dust and ashes we bring,
weariness and weary backs,
all we lack,
the dimmed dreams and ambitions,
here the new commission is mercy,
light a candle for the ones you love as well as the ones
that you cannot,
and in this dark
 
I like to share it with you even as i see how it is going to change. There's certainly plenty of sexy in here tonight.
 
aaron

So I read you were in Westville prison again, safe and sound again, its good to know where you are, not running around, not sleeping in graveyards, not half crazy, not down the street living with some girl after you said you loved me, refusing to come to me—you deserve everything you get.

I didn’t want you but I wanted you to commit,
I still have the pictures, the best pictures of you the memory of your body, out of jail the last time, long and sleek and tattooed, walking around my kitchen naked, boiling the rice and making the coffee so you could sleep under another bridge because you were saying things so it was like you wanted to stay with me, and you wanted me to pay for another night in a hotel room, but you had never wanted me that much before

Say, remember the first time we made love and I asked you to stay and you said I can’t I have crazy, crazy issues and sometimes I fight and strangle people in my sleep, but when you moved to that girl, did you strangle her? When you left and went to someone smaller—and I realize strength is a crime—did you mangle her?
No but you must have done something.

And that’s how you got to Westville prison.

You were always prison soft to me, jail smooth, the first time I saw you was at a friend’s house, you were so good looking so sweet, I wanted to kiss you on your mouth and take you to my bed. I waited two years, three years to bring you here, for us to be in this bed together,
now I have waited a year some more, I will wait still two years to see your face again.

Every time I see you I am seeing a ghost,
the shrunken man with graying hair hides the beautiful boy who smelled so good I wanted to kiss and lie with all night, and
when I take this photo of you…

when I take this photo of you…

when….

strong body, spiky haired, sweet and fierce faced
there
you are.

This time, when you come out, will you smell like prison?

Will the scent of ill running water, open toilets and despair cling to you? will it have arisen from your pores when we kiss and touch the bed, when I stroke the base of your balls while you pant when I give head?

The last time I saw you, you were in the kitchen making noodles and not being allowed to stay, though I’d found you and empty apartment for the night. You were afraid to be indoors, when you went out, you went out like a light and now my mother is dead, sometimes my faith is dead, the whole world is turned on its head, and you are in the jail house

Don’t get mad now. Don’t you get all jail crazy, but I maybe I showed that photo of you to friends. Maybe I showed you standing their naked making coffee. When I took that picture I was naked to, half in and out of love with you, we had just had sex in the next room, we lay still after I wiped my seed from your belly.


It seems I’m always loved by crazy men
And then they leave me,
I needed to be redeemed, washed and cleansed
At five am, I went to look at the moon and find my heaven

For a few days we had something to say and some bravery to offer but now we have only this, the memory of our mutual sadness.
And I don’t know what happened to you
The last time I saw you I said get to your family, get to your blood and don’t run from them and all that you haven’t done, and don’t make all these thing their fault.

You said “this being homeless saddens me”, “this sleeping in ditches and behind mausoleums saddens me,” and I did what I could do, not willing to be used
I said, see this spare room in this apartment building, you sleep here, but you said, I will sort myself out there and then move on and so you disappeared.

I did what I could do, not willing to be used
and never knowing someone had sent my five thousand dollars till after you were gone.


Ar 4 am I stand here making a cup of coffee as once you stood, mixing ramen noodles nude as birth, walking between the sink and the stove before they took you back to jail again, which is where you seem to belong.
 
eddie

…had the smoothest roundest ass I’ve ever seen, and a penis ten inches long, a shlong that swung back and forth like an elephant trunk and was good for nothing but to be pretty, but to be limp and velvet smooth in my mouth and
then his fingers and mouth opened me up to many things and when I fucked him,
oh he would intake his breath, he would demand, what the fuck is this? in a high voice like he was praising the lord, my word, how he would ride me!
he taught me the meaning of insatiable, with few words and little personality,
in a sexy black thong, his ass sung as he revealed it from his trousers,
I remember the smell of his skin, and then, one day he was gone away,
rarer and rarer
Two years you spent in and out of my bed, giving me head and riding me to
the sunrise
And then my dear, disappear is what you started to do
One last time you came, I came inside you, caressing your buttered cakes,
marveling in the man who had no words, but a lovely body
I had to find out things about you, you wanted no story
How you were e. b. midgeton and you came from north Carolina,
how you wore those oversized colorful suits Black Baptists wear,
and over there you threw your hands up praising Jesus the way you praised my cock.



Once I ran my hand up and down your firm and living flesh and thought,
one day you will learn that one of your loves is dead and this skin
is cold and gone
But long before that you left me in the way casual lovers do
You went the way of Johnny and Martin and Michael and the truth is now
I think about them too
I thought, last night, it has been near eight years since you left off
humping me, but last night, I learned it was only two,
and the other six,
while I praised your name, your lust,
your tight brown body,
you were dust
dead and gone and buried on a hill
in North Carolina
 
jess

this dirty room makes too much noise, all this crazy shit thrown this way and that,
the stack of tarot cards my foot falls into, and yet, this is the noise I can stand. This noise I will take
You wake to a bell that tells you it’s still morning and you’ve made it through the initiations of the night

You know, last night I almost called you just because I wanted a man even though you were only half
I almost called your skinny face and put up with your nonsense just so I could have your body for an hour—you were always the perfect love to send home,
you always sent yourself home,
the goodness that was you could not survive beyond two hours
Teach me the meaning of half life

You are still looking for meth and the million dollar money machine, after two years on the street you’re still scheming, and your face is a sad old woman’s all covered in grease.

compassionate arms should have scooped you up and locked you away a long time ago, but there you go, mad and unfit and we don’t have patience for the mad cause we’re so close to them.

mercy for the crazy is much to much like looking in the mirror

You always said I never had enough, asked what I was looking for
The only thing I’m seeking is someone with the humility to fuck, the lust of true balls and an end to all this posing,
When I was young I sought out sex in alleys and backyards,
top floors of parties, floors of hardwood, and out of all the rowdy men, I am the last one standing, and five hundred prophets of Baal, and five hundred prophets of Baal
and I am the last one standing


The rills and ripples on your chest make your breath,
and the curve of your ass and the soft strength in your limbs,
all the things that more than make up for your face and the
half man that you were, in the darkness we endure half things
to get what we can
 
solstice

On the longest night of the year I listened to a horrible lessons and carols.
I surrounded my self in other stories I hadn’t heard
and filled myself with light and food.
They say we are going into the time of darkness,
though for months now every night was dimmer
and every night was darker,
you have to pull the weights off your back.
They say winter is on its way and hardship may come but
they don’t know the hardship has happened.
You make merry to chase this winter away,
but you sing to remember you’re still here.
Remember every day the white snow falls is every day
the day grows longer,
remember the you that you were and
look at the you you are, remember how impossible
resurrection seemed and then look at the scars all on
your hands and see, printed in your palms,
something like rejoicing.




keeping the feast

In the old days when belief was not mistaken for triumph
and dogma had not replaced love,
in times before this had been split from that,
the festival could be held,
you could keep it up with several people for days on end.
Now, with a different kind of joy, I keep the feast alone.
These days there is the festival of music,
and now and again on circuits they see each other,
hear this band, smoke this pot, and there is the remnant of the holy day,
the Mass barely endured that makes a festival of the Lord,
and there is the dinner table that self martyring mothers set up,
serving up dishes to their infinite suffering,
the bufferin mama took to stay all day on her feet,
sifting out the wheat of joy and lust from every celebration
But once these things were one.
Once when we still knew the steps to walk,
when we remembered how to talk the sacred speech,
we gathered in holy delight, day after day, to re examine the miracle,
to light the candles, filling glasses with the wine of wonder,
beating drums echoing the thunder of heaven.
We knew how to keep the feast.

But since you do not,
since you do not,
since you do not know to believe, and you have fallen to
your depression,
the theologian to tired digressions,
I will rise and keep the feast,
I keep the feast until you can.
 
wayne

You are the only one I would have stayed up for this long,
I had lines written in my head about you and about him and about this other one, about loves made and love only made in my mind.
The writing will save you every time
the memory will take you from madness
Even if it’s the memory of that which never was.
These words about us, I made them up in the dark and thought
to get up and write them down only
life is more than recording life, and they are gone now and in place
of them are these scribbles describing nothing but the working of my mind
while I try to find a prescription for what you did to me, the love you made to me,
expertly pinning me down, turning my thigh that way,
putting your mouth this way to attention,
lapping like a cat, your hands like a lion,
this is the love of someone who has known
my body fourteen years
 
PART ONE OF COREY


corey

this just won’t do, this just won't do. i think i've had enough of you
it just wont do, it just won't do, all these foolish men i screw,


I found that old picture of you, indian red, brown and copper, lain out naked on the bed, body rubbed in oil and glossy with mis-spent youth, in all the times i wrote you in your prison cell i never got around to asking why and where was going on and when i sent those letters that you needed, your reaction was never much—
you wanted more, thought you deserved it and simply said it until i got tired…
they should never had invented the phrase unconditional love
it made men think everything is free

when you see a wife that thinks nothing of giving up her
whole life to serve a man, you have to understand,
neither does he.
To some men being served is just the way things
are meant to be

we talked all night, and she said, in the end, how do you know my son? and i am not a one to lie, but i will tell this one so I just say old friends cause it is better than saying, in a dark room i rode him as the sun came up and underneath me like the spider under the predatory fly, his limbs splayed out while I took him.

this just won’t do, this just won't do. i think i've had enough of you
it just wont do it just won't do, all these foolish men i screw,
i have to be off on my own,
i cannot take another bone!


that night when you came over you were full of fuck and fury and nothing more, and when all you thought was you had spilled itself in a spurt of fifteen seconds and shook you to the core,
you lay on your back blinking, dazzled by the fear filling you from your head down to the floor that you were nothing.

this just won’t do, this just won't do. i think i've had enough of you
it just wont do it just won't do, all these foolish men i screw,
i have to be off on my own,
i cannot take another bone that's so chewed up by these sad dogs,
i'm tired of these rotting logs
this just won't do, this just won't do
i hope another's fucking you


i have mixed the wine and the water, i have mixed the wine and the water, i have mixed the mother up with the daughter and forgotten the father and the son.
i heard from a witch that all the kings pass but one, and the mothers always remain
i don't know what any of that bullshit means, i only know you and i are here in the quietness of things, lighting candles and carving wishes into candles, burning out incense in an old stone church abandoned a hundred years ago
this last step is the last step where we pray in our silence without dogmas and doctrines, then we fuck on the floor

the silence of ecstasy,

the proof of human life after we doubted that we were...

there is nothing more







ii.

You were fresh from prison, three years and you’d
learned nothing, thirty three you still wished to be twenty five
cause you had nothing to add to the world and all you’d
had before was looks, you went through bathroom stalls,
trawled, got eaten out in backseats,
creeped from mouth to mouth to get a word of recognition,
knelt on a pallet in a park and got fucked in the ass,
just to hear the words pass across you,
“you are beautiful.”
And they say no one can make you feel less without your consent,
but everyone who lent a breath to life knows that is a lie.
I write it all out, shout it out, smoke it out,
sit on the floor and meditate it out,
forget this dreadful place and every foolish
word and offer up all this nothing.


The moment of quiet will come when
all the noisy lies are done,
and there is only the silence of you and me,
your jeans down with your guard down,
thong around your knees, and me,
kneeling before the honest garden
between your legs,
receiving the blessing of your hands on my head,
your open lips and arched back mouth,
you
firm as fruit
in my mouth.


And yet at the end of every conversation what I wonder is how will you feel inside of me? Will you be as firm and solid as you were the first time, and what would it be like, to hold you in my mouth?

I am barely awake, I celebrated all night and feasted in the early afternoon,
I had to make room for rest and lay my wearied body down. I remember the lust that is only a dream, poetry is calling up the cream that was lost and bringing it back to life.

Remembering your body in the dark, warm soft Potowatami skin
And then, the entry of you, hands slap my ass, the thickness of native cock.
Bodies lock together
What would it be to ride you?
To close eyes in a dark room and share the dark view, the orgasm of negative light?
The bowl of beautiful belly, man’s body, strong and soft and smooth
Eyes flashing like lightning in fuck
My hands caressing the gentle round of Anishinaabe ass,
All American taint, your Michigan balls, hot and heavy as a hit of marijuana

excursus:

yout sins are so
many they are piled upon my head,
you need to get clean
and speak in clichés,
you are starting from a low place,
no one ever taught you how to stay round,
fucking since you was thirteen.
A hard on pulling you like a old tether
from cheap forest to latrine.
“My dick has led me like a
slavemaster,
I’m exhausted from my coming.”
 
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