Sunday, August 24, 2014

WYB Outtakes Pt 3


I am a limited body. I do
not encompass much, &
my ace-in-the-hole is how
& why I know this (from
long experience of waves,
which have taken salty
thoughts from my brains). 
I know vastness, being little.
I know defeat sans groans.
Being pure is what saves.
Out at sea, unnumbered
uproars roll past my ears,
like the Danny’s bar-keep’s
innuendos like thunder.   


I can't feel a thing but pain.
Everything I say's a blunder—
form and feeling gone insane—
heaps of snow inside my brain.
She's my loaded cherry pie.
I'm not worth her sliding doors
unless my eyes get cauterized
and moving sand's a wooden floor.
It's all been said except for this—
that I will out the road I missed,
scattered signs, paraphernalia of
our last night’s pilgrimage past
the bucks hitting Bucktown’s tow-
away zone, down-bound baked goods.

 Worn Yesterday

To circle you from inside you,
from inside glassy globes of skin
offered up in mute scream to
shared sharp pangs, how a lock
might close shut in this, how it
could clasp us to a firmament,
how in arching up we forge bliss,
down, & to be gone is concupiscent,
& come is gone, white-woven in —
what’s still unaccounted for is
how when I leave this place again
for Philly, I’ll look for you on
Main Street, Manayunk, find
myself at Worn Yesterday again.

Saturday, August 23, 2014

WYB Outtakes 2

Bon Appetit

Would that you were closer
that we each could roll over
and beg to be petted, loved,
rubbed & flown over, above
what keeps us planted in dirt.
I don’t mean to call you a flirt.
I don’t mean to tell you OK.
I can’t think of what I can say.
The omens say Bon Appetit
omens are closer than meat.
What murmurs from Wicker
Park’s main street as we are
up semi-fucking at dawn, city
birds: they portend concrete. 

                                                      Fear-Dreary Philly

No little lame balloon-man
whistles far or wee, or even
has balloons. I sit near the
fan, feel like Dante's son
plucked by this city of
dreams into Hades. There's
no way this can be anything
but rote, my hip routine,
& even a fly's anus looks
more succulent. But, what
the fuck. I've got memories.
As I anticipate the wideness
of your limbs, quiet or not,
the shore I stand on is silent.

                                                      Goddess in the Stream

Diana: there she is.
I’m staggered. She
gestures to herself,
as if to say, look at
me, I’m nude, I’m
yours. I can’t just
turn away. I’m too
moved, too turned
on: stricken with
a surfeit of lust. So
I bolt towards her,
& she emerges onto
a bank, & says: woe
betide stags’ movies.

Friday, August 22, 2014

Three WYB Outtakes ('07/'08)


You’re like an obsessive
astronaut: coveting space,
empty vacuums, stretching
outwards around you, deep
as wolf-hour dreams, dark
as bottoms of rocky peaks.
I live, breathe, in your sleep.
My need: toothed like a shark.
There is no reconciling this.
Uneasy space is rank to kiss.
I’m lowly wise, a slug, stuck
to woody surfaces, rocky
bottoms, yours. What luck:
between your legs is bold and stark.


Your scales are wave-hewn.
You are soporific as a siren.
Around you limbs are strewn.
It’s fin to tail chess. Pawns
move in an undulant fashion.
I have nothing to trade you
but a marching soldier’s gun
I know little of. I know what
to do with him, loosely, but
really this air has me kite-high,
ready to blow, high to black sky.
Then, on the shore of your
wide world I kneel before you,
hopped up on sedated nerves. 


I’m Eternity’s Pilgrim, I’m
hot enough to broil flesh, I
am made one with Nature,
yours, every time you flip
over for me. It’s cynical to
speak in these terms, but
I’m captain of a wet ship—
you’re sub someone, slut.

It’s a big identity mess. It’s
me angling to parse an angle
not yet gelled, where there
is “we”, & we’re newfangled.
It’s a bunch of bullshit.
I’m floss on thorns, tangles.  

Thursday, August 21, 2014

From "Mortuary Puppies" ('98/'99)

C: (finding a razor, preparing to slit his wrists) God is a spider piercing heaven with venom and menace!

A: (knocking razor out of C's Hand) Fuck death! Death is the refuse of flies! (the rest of the group forms a semi-circle around him, begins falling at his feet and feeling him up sensually, lust in their eyes) Death is the pulse of underwater nowhere! (the group begins to sex-pant) Death is the thin arm of ridiculous waving! (the group begins to climax violently) You're all a bunch of babbling crabs! (he breaks off them and they whimper) Let us ride. Let us worship a lesbian gopher. Let us spit our vehemence. (he takes out a copy of the Bible from under the candle; in it are five copies of the poem "bible"; he distributes them; the rest of the group forms a line at the front of the stage and recites this poem)

B,C, D, E, F:

bible is stilts for mind-midgets,
brassy as a barnum poster, three-ringed
bible is black and white silent film
with Valentino Christ presiding....

A: (regaining his composure, lighting a cigarette suavely) Terrible, how our needy flesh imagines satisfaction in external monuments.

B: (rising, kneeling before A) Shut your eyes and listen- the thread of children's voices will hold our hearts in place, cozy as a hammer's nail or tire tracks on blacktop roads.