i have breasts
ghost-dancing in michigan
& mexico & sometimes
isadora shakes her finger
at me, her giggling finger,
as i swoosh thru a party
surprising students
& faculty alike, blue
chiffon.
red lipstick.
what do i know about octavio
paz? nada mucho
nor this urge
for female movement.
i am gross,
a man outside a college.
i am no poet,
a writer without theatrical
histrionics.

 
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there are days when i feel useless as a limp dick,
trapped here in redneck land of
fat cops, rock'n'roll hootchie coo,
cold beers & hot shots of kentucky whiskey,
& a graveyard full of the better people around town.
my soul is small-town, my brain tuned down to
the imperfection of the place i am,
here on the edge where the alluvial plains begins
to turn toward the foothills, short of the
cumberland plateau, short of reality, short
of humanity itself.
i walk among bold thugs & brain-stealers,
saints & killers, drunks & the arrow straight,
cowboy roofers with bushy hair hanging out from
under battered hats,
lanky tanned chicks in white shorts & reboks,
strutting their stuff just before sunset,
lawyers in pinstripe suits & silk ties
toting briefcases full of grief,
the pounding of gavels in courtrooms where
the despair is so thick it tastes like shit
in yr mind.
i die of boredom in meetings where dumb people
give their polyester opinions & look for ways
to further fuck the populace, always
running for re-election with every word that
falls like cold rain from their lying mouths.
i would give my left nut to be 25 again,
propped up on a stool in a yuppie bar with
sleek blondes hanging all over me,
guzzling scotch & imported beer, knowing
that the dream of burying my face between those
slim thighs could be a reality, like it once was,
instead of the pipe dreams of
an old fuck who has crossed the mark
and stumbles blindly now on his
short remaining trip to the graveyard,
wondering with each lurch where the hell
it all went, whatever IT was.

 
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No I didn't see her face;
I'da liked that but
I was watchin his at least.
You know even when you covered him up
he still looked surprised.

 
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and just when i
had convinced the other me
that we might yet be a martyr
the maniacal broke
butts and ash
lotus upwards and into the through my head
thousand-petaled cancers
blown with good intent
by lips like overripe strawberries
settle
gently as mimosa rewards the touch
you can feel the sex under callouses

 
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of catalogues and magazines
and submissions and accepted
poems to be typed up and
books I need to order in and
bills I hope I can pay and
fliers for events I will most
likely forget to go to and
curse myself when I find them
weeks afterwards Under
chapbooks to review and
tidbits for newsletters and
Internal Revenue documents
that label me nearly a
criminal Under the 3/4
written letters to friends
that never hear from me
and the contact list for
bookstore promotions
Under thess piles of never
ending recyclable data
is a desk
that without it all
remains
just
a desk

 
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7 YEAR OLD FINDS HER MOTHER'S MURDERED BODY

The cat was walking on the
table, lapping up cream from
the blue pitcher that's broken
now. But Mommy didn't say
anything when the man with
frizzy hair came in. She just
said go upstairs even though I
wasn't finished. I was drinking
milk and watching cartoons.
She didn't even say to put
on my school clothes. Then I
heard things falling and a
clunk. I went to the cellar.
Mommy had her arm like a
doll dropped out of a car
and her face wasn't there

 
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---

**leaving hell**

surely it wasn't because
of an Atlantic city
big bosom'd
streetwalking prostitute or
a faggot waving
genitalia under his nose or
bad drugs and
he said he wasn't addicted
to gambling...
that wasn't his style?

I've seen him
at the tables any of the times
I was there---
rolling dice and women
in a drunken thunder
dazzlin' spectators with
speculators in awe over
his fortunate hits

he developed
a winning streak and
he drew large crowds:
casino tourists
big time bettors
curious welfare gamblers---
fucked within an hour,
waitin' for a bus ride
back to poverty 'til
the 1st of the next month and
they cheered him on and
on and
more often than not, he
left with another jackpot
under his belt...

well, then maybe
his lucky charm
screwed him over or
his notorious wife
howled effortlessly
endlessly about
neglecting the kids
the family
the finances
generosity and love
lost
to a gaming table or...
or...and on...

seagulls hung in the air
squawking sarcastic grins
probably at another
overdose of rotten
chance
and the police stood
delaying traffic
shaking their heads
writing the report
and the medics covered him
with a white sheet but
I bet
you can bet that
he bet-
as he jumped from
a 7th story complimentary room-
his last bottom dollar
on the wine
the wonders
the women
the  works
and the everlasting dignity
of hell.

 
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---

The neighbors have a dog;
it isn't kind to me.

I eat chocolate
in the backyard
pour tall ones
smoke cigarettes
scribbling in a notebook
exhaling the smoke across the ice.

The smoke hangs in the glass
the dog barks,
21 times a cigarette
35 times a drink.

PART 2, 2:45AM: The Roommate

My roommate complained through his bedroom wall
I was holding down a job and getting 8 hours sleep.
I think he tried to say:
“Wake up! Get drunk! It’s 3am!”
“Come meet these fine people
I brought from the bar!”
I think he tried to tell me
this was my only life
and one day
I’d be in line for another saying:
“Can we make it more interesting this time, please?”
But all I heard
was a 31 year old bartender
falling on his bedroom walls
opening and closing his window
double pane Morse code
and barking back at the neighbor’s dog.

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And if you cracked my head like a nut
in that vice-lock-erotica and
My brains gushed out onto your belly I
would die a happy man.

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a ponytailed monster
with bent and bloodied teeth
raises its hand
to slap the ass of
the ram that's falling
to earth.
a football player charges
his opponent. someone's
penis grows.
it's circumcised.

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imagine
all those hurtful things
you've been saying to me
lately, and I'll just say how
laughable some of them
really are. like the time

you insisted
all I need is two weeks with no kids
to rest and "get my shit together."
or better still, the time you told me
a whole year later, how
frantic you really felt
when I went to California last summer
to visit friends.
how you worried they'd given me a ridiculous
bogus address and you'd never
see me again.

an entire fucking year later
you tell me all of this? and wonder what's missing
between us, why I left?

if only
I had it in me to return some of those
hurtful yet comical comments
to you. but instead, I'm stronger
and more able to
hold back.

so just remember
who put up with your endless insults
of "my, aren't we horny, tonight"
whenever I tried to become more adventuresome,
sexy in bed. or who didn't ever put you down
for all the stress we were under
leading to those months you
couldn't get it up.

but I will
say this much. for all the times
you wanted me to, I've finally done it.
I've shaved my pussy.
yes now, when you will not
be getting scent nor taste
of its sensual beauty.

imagine that.

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We were cupped
by Picasso
eating out of his hands
as he serenaded us
in mastery
and California Green Thumb

Cross legged
on the floor
passing tears of anguish and joy.
A crying soul.
A Masterpiece speaks
like none that I had seen
on the walls of any Museum.

Santiago Soliloquize
dance from his throat
beggin' to be heard
kickin' your melon
WAKE UP!

Pablo embraced Joe.
Stroked his lines,
brushed his words,
painted his heart,
and laid it out
for all to see.
A pure child
cradlin' his blood
scribbled on a page

Watching in awe
as he ran naked before us.
His stripped soul
wondering through the morning.
Mesmerizing streaker,
tossing lunch boxes
to the hungry.
Drink it up.

DaVinci only smiled
Monet simply danced
Vangogh and his ear
Latrec had his red headed
Can Can whores.
Picasso found a voice
and strummed the chords
in the dawn.

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There's a stage.. oh.. look,
the audience consists mostly of people with their eyes closed
waving blindly at the air above their heads,
grasping at the nothing
and mouthing things that no one can hear.
Look at them...
The stage has upon it a choir dressed in jeans and t-shirts...
there's a band.
A man standing center stage is strumming his guitar (for the lord,
apparently)
as he sings the words
"Holy, Holy, Holy..."
into the mic over and over and over...
soon the entire audience is with him...
teenagers, mostly...
all singing "Holy, Holy, Holy..."
over and over and over and over and over and... well,
You get the idea.
This went on for several minutes.
I finally changed the damn channel
and tried to recover from what I'd just seen...
a sight that I found profoundly disturbing.

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And So Atlas Begins

he was the 98-pound weakling
reading books on the beach
eating sand from muscle-jocks
who wore bikini girls on their arms
everyone laughed
but him

and as he tensed his fist wanting to hit
the world that would push him around
he felt his muscles getting sore
young scrawny Charles flexed and tensed
hours in the fortress of his room
building an armor suit of muscles
he became the rescuer of 98-pound
weaklings wanting them to change
be like him

when they feared him
he felt strong and righteous
if a girl wanted him he needed her
needing to be wanted
becoming this Atlas this mythic male figure
on the back of comic books
frozen forever in a flex
with the world on his back

people's expectations became his rules
he did what was needed of him
to feel good about himself
surrounded himself with wounded needy people
all the emptiness of the world
resting firm on the shoulders

of a skinny boy

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I lose a piece
of my soul
every time I try
to comprehend
beauty.

The mad wander,
speak to themselves
One, two, three, four.
I always seem to
ride their coat tails.

I can't help it.
I love her.
She speaks as
if no one hears,
but I do.
She walks as if
there is nowhere
to go,
but I follow.

Hanging,
tortured,
bestowed to
beasts.
They are savage
in lustful hate.
Fields of animosity.

What will she do?
How will she survive,
as she has
for so long?
Yet, no one knows
as I do.
She can have
my breath and life.
I pushed her.
I tripped her.

I picked her up
and will continue
to do so
until I
depart.
Alone from the world.

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the evening streets are stitched together
with moments which once were
the consistency of thread
you
came out
from the red brick building
which we had threatened to tear down
and held your head
just so
at an angle to the evening
as tho the evening might somehow
come back at you in some soft
and slurry whisper

that is how you were
I watched
that same evening
bend and break away
the corners of some sharp heart
which lay within myself

I could not say
I love you,
yet
I wrote verses
only for you
slipping and sliding things
a bus thrusting itself
into the sad placenta of st. louis
and me
whelped
upon the gritty aborted streets
you know so well

there is an emptiness to the evening
which only lovers can tell
a silliness, one which
escapes the jealous eye
and hides itself
between that which I would say
and that which I would hide
and calls itself all that I would
rather keep inside

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I pressed
my ear to hear
them,
strained
to smell them,
brought my fingers
to my face
and kissed
in their embrace.

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