Porno: Canto #40 (Farce Remix)
How does it feel to be a problem? –W.E.B. DuBois (The Souls of Black Folk)
Becoming my closet, my own son stood up
whispering over my shoulder: the goofy
faggot the brainy faggot
pretending to be happy
on the cell phone with his father
while driving, I gradually became green ocean
inclining like a supernatural scrim.
I needed to unpack the life that gave calamity,
empty the brawny faggot
and re-gift my body with stories.
The son followed me like a trick
into the candy wrapper catacombs
of Golden Gate Park calling after me: brainy faggot, goofy faggot, brawny faggot.
In order to keep the secret, one must vomit his mother on a whim.
Do you see now this country is a farce that tastes like a crime?
This country burns and it likes
going down on puppet regimes.
Animals also have questions about this impenetrable war:
Say, will each of the dead hand over his skin
and will your dead sons wear
this star pattern of brokenness?
Remember: a child will take chaos
spreading like blood, black as tar
crawling along the ocean floor
and wear it like a phantom shadow
cinematized on a bedroom wall.
Too deep to unbury a big boiling fuck you. How does it feel to know every country
Farce is a sponsorship made of pride. Greed is the failed object of economy.
I am at least two souls flung all over the juniper trees
Windblown away from the Golden Gate Bridge.
Like so many starving at the crust of farce
day dreaming I could keep you in my fetish, saying Yes to this dilemma
where the memory camellia I watch from my desk window
instils my pink antiseptic heaven.
A farcical few of you, off with your buds
Smoking cigars at the Eagle, refusing deodorant and eschewing colognes,
For your own pheromones
growing beards to spite
The corpo=cracy. You are my musky heroes!
(remember hypocrisy, darlings,
they want our money, not our bearded equality,
not our salvation, not even our clean shaven kisses in the street).
Let dusk annihilate the tiny, fenced garden.
Embalm my exit thoughts