“When I realized there was no absolute except in renunciation, I dedicated myself to appearances”
I have “a stupid little heart” sticky & heavy like rice
& about as candid as a Masonic lodge.
Your cum like teeth-whitening serum or the trail of a snail on white china.
Zero abortions, zero dependents & financially secure
in a kind of quasi-Geisha way. I splurge on sushi & weed.
You romanticize the proletariat,
Stars block my path to you, your vatic alphabet is my blood and my EKG
Jumps around like the liner notes for the Peanuts theme song.
Sometimes I just freeze and the dog of my imagination gets called
Home after dark. Other times, I join trophy wives by the poolside: human tempura,
fly to the Amalfi Coast, eat pills and you straining to rise above it all.
A couple of steaks, maybe some antifreeze, Christmas in Tokyo
where the cherry blossoms fall in the shade of snow
like the shadows cast by eyelashes! If I had a million dollars, I mean
if it wasn’t tied up in securities, I’d give all the poets two weeks
in Pacific Daylight Time…
(No Animals Were Harmed in the Production of this Poem)
I drank the White Russian standing next to My Bloody Valentine
& in the moonlight, the oleanders looked like bosoms
heaving drowsily over the unexperienced lake
wait, I swear I’m coming it kept whispering
but you are “two with nature” and corks bob in our wine
like pageboys on the women on Park
as the piss-soaked sun burns over a flock of
buildings, your eyes are like the green pools
of drowned toddlers, your kneecaps
like the skulls of inbred dogs,
your penis which looks like a sun-burnt
baby’s arm & smells of chlorine brings me to —
tears? No, thank you awfully much,
it’s positively rain. Me I’m strong, can do
the Hercules One Arm Bed-to-Bed Transfer
I love my guardian angel, the last heathen
before the freeway.
Please take out the garbage of this poem &
If you’ve ever read a poem this bad,
Then welcome back.
Can a fag ever conquer his love of chi chi?
Isn’t there always a little inside him trying to get out?
Feverish, fibrous & generally trying not to die…
Ah Verona! If there were only some kind of future!
My mom is vast & handsome.
She flies all the time to the Amalfi Coast, eats pills
& knows nothing of my corpuscular wretchedness—
Little dried islands of blemish makeup like croissant flakes
All tragically flawed makes one think of some great dancer
Who nevertheless had thick legs. And tea-oil toothpicks tingle
Like antiseptic on Nancy’s Reagan’s legs. Me, I said No
To drugs years before the First Family.