Pipe Dreams

It seldom takes more than a toke, just a whiff,
to start my tongue reeling off stories of you;
on our naughtier nights we might split a spliff,
surrounded by haloes of smokiest hue.

God only knows how I lost my huge honey!
Through railroad investments, a cyclone, a ring?
Ten carats of coal I once hocked for money
to pay for potatoes? I replaced it with string.

The calamity came from Switzerland—Berne—
a skiing instructor, I forget on which Alp.
His mittens said Matt. I said I can turn
a blind eye to that. Methamphetamines helped.

But now only cads will attend my cotillions!
Now, only cockroaches and creditors call!
Mostly cockroaches—I seem to have billions—
all poking forks in my nerves through the wall.

I sit in my corner, just nibbling my knuckle.
The party is over, and my place is a sty,
and I think of five fingers I tore from my buckle.
“Darling, don’t hurt me,” you said. “Don’t cry.”

Ashes to Asses, Dust to Lust

For Gavin

Don’t misunderstand me, dear. I’m wed
to speculation, for our future is
not carved in stone. If my tight fanny fits
atop your cock, or it buckles, we shall

learn. For breakfast to exist in any form—
a gentle lay at dawn or Bloody Mary
at brunch—we must reserve a seat—at least
have a destination in mind. I have come

home from brunch, to find my house burning,
a smoke choked sky, and, to my astonishment,
laughed, lit a cigarette, happy I was
full and carried a toothbrush in my bag.

When the police allowed me back inside,
I cried a bit—it’s true—my windows smashed,
bed glittering with glass, that day destroyed.
But I was insured for fire. I found

no pearls among my debris, just CDs.
I open cases now—15 years
later—to find dead musicians veiled
in soot. Unplayable discs. These I replace

with new recordings. Life goes on.

The Camel

For Gavin


The love is in the writing, yes. It is
This pencil—architect of all my hopes.
I suck on my eraser, like a nipple.
The friction of the lead provides some heat.
The little squiggles which adorn my man-
Uscript, swim wonderfully between the
Lines, like freshly ejected sperm,
Seeking, out of instinct, a nice, warm
Place they can kick off their flippers,
Crack a Michelob, exhausted, and unwind.
A mouth, a hand, some other place. Who knows?

Your last poem mentioned your career,
Retiring from porn, continuing to appear
Naked, reading poetry in California.
I was in college then, learning from my dad
Sucking cock was probably something
A boy in Buffalo ought not to do.
Soon after he discovered my diary,
I found myself searching for a butt one
Night along the shoulder of a road
So dark it seemed to lead into a future
Paved entirely in blackness, coal.

A scattering of stars, a slice of Moon,
The prick of a pink planet, Mars, I think,
Took pity on me, like the passing cars.
Those headlights allowed me to pick out
A discarded pack of Camels which
Concealed one cigarette and puff of air.
How incredible that find: how Moon
And Mars, Camel and cars, kept
Me company that night. But the sparks
Of a tossed Marlboro let me smoke
Where I was going—a dim, orange glow.

I thanked the driver as he sped away,
Truck dwindling to a pair of rubies. I
Had no matches in my pocket—no-
Thing useful, no money, no house keys:
A Latin book in my backpack, Ovid’s
Metamorphoses, toothbrush, clothes,
Socks and soiled underwear. And still
How lucky I felt—and not too cold—
Now that I could smoke. The poetry
We’d write together was so far away—
Farther than Mars, that truck driver, you

Standing naked in L.A. And love,
While that Camel lasted, didn’t seem
A possibility all that remote.

Garbage

It sits beside a sad geranium,
The brown remains of my best friend, a fern,
A plastic pot his mausoleum.
I’ll miss our talks. Our walks. The way he’d turn

Into a human, suddenly, and cry,
You’re crazy! I’m a fucking fern! A plant!
We can’t keep having these discussions! I
Refuse! Please, put me down this instant!

What do I do with him? A yellow flock
Of leaves falls from the trees. We stand outside.
Neighbors have lined up around the block
To pay their last respects. I can’t decide

If I should dump him out and keep the pot.
Are ferns recyclable? Are friends? Guess not.

A Shropshire Lad

Continuing on the A.E. Housman theme from yesterday, here is a little poem about a book I had lost and then rediscovered in Connecticut, as I was getting ready to move back to New York.



A Shropshire Lad

Digging through a damp, decaying box
Of poetry books stored in the garage,
I found the one I had been looking for
Grown rather green and moldy—an image

Which might have raised a ghostly smile beneath
The author’s clipped Victorian moustache.
How perfect Housman was the moldy one!
My only one! Lord, how we might have laughed!

To a Parsnip

Inspired by Catullus and offered without one scintilla of commentary*.


To a Parsnip
After Catullus

For Eshu


Goodbye to Heaven’s alabaster root,
Sweet and dirty, hard and cold, a friend
Whose name escapes me now, tall and cute,
Uncircumcised, six inches end to end.

It pains me now to weigh him in one hand,
A knife the other, skinning him for stew:
But there’s more meat on Mr. Parsnip than
My friend possessed. It feels more human, too.



*This be an emended version, dedicated our faithful commentator Eshu, who hath found our original version funny, but our conclusion lacking Catullian bite. We hope he findeth our present alterations more to his Classical fancy. We wish for nothing more from Heaven than happy readers. God be wi’ you all. (Especially the Parsnip.)

This Isn't What I Intended

I was going to write about the Swedish meatballs with dill sauce I had at Little Poland for dinner tonight, and about Lori and Dave, visiting NYC from North Carolina, but I got sidetracked. When I returned to Connecticut from my afternoon in the city, I accidentally drank a bottle of Pinot Grigiot, and now I don't feel like describing the sauce, which was the oleaginous element binding the whole idea together. Another alcohol related tragedy, I guess.

Anyway here is a poem I wrote ten years ago about my friend Michael, who first introduced me to Little Poland.

We haven't spoken for a while, and I think he now works as an artifact in a museum in Berlin.


Sigh

Because of all we have
Committed to the fire,
I seldom kiss your thigh
Without a faint desire

To put a period
To these pointless affairs
Where the sex is so exquisite,
Nobody really cares.

If.

Apart from a quiet interlude of peace yesterday afternoon, in Jackson Heights, when the light in the room was perfect for photographing elements of Heaven, it has been a dreadfully disillusioning couple of days here in the Land of Iambs.

First, thanks to the Flaming Curmudgeon, we learn that much of Mankind--the best part of Mankind--is destined to die of throat cancer. Second, our Japanese language school has announced it is closing down its Japanese program--and we are about to be cast--ignorant of Kanji-- on to the streets of New York. And third, the dentist had to reschedule this afternoon's appointment with bib and ice-pick.

Well, maybe that last item doesn't quite come under the heading of disaster, but when you have successfully psyched yourself for a bout of torture, it is hard not to be disappointed when the ordeal is postponed.

The impulse to lose my head and run screaming back to cigarettes is strong, but somehow I am resisting the urge. I have started eating large quantities of Empire apples--with no ill effects.

This is not to say that the Imperial Apple of Knowledge may be consumed in large quantities without some startling consequences for the human body. (I refer the reader to the book of Genesis for a full explanation of the human predicament.) But these consequences are relatively benign in nature--rich in pathos and metrical regularity--like the best poetry. Never has indoor plumbing been greeted with such sighs of joy by an audience. Or relief...

As for me, I believe that as long as the toilet paper holds out, we can hold out--wherever we happen to find ourselves deposited on this globe. Contrary to the predictions of doom-mongers. Man is an inventive creature, and never to be underestimated in his will and his capacity to survive.

If we can keep our eyes firmly fixed on the Future, these moments of stress--second thoughts and self-doubt--environmental, economic, psychological, physical--will pass silkily out of our system like yesterday's apples. With hardly a scrap of thought or paper wasted.

This why I like the the poem, If, by Rudyard Kipling. And if I were poet laureate--now there is a scary thought--I would not screw around with subways. I would see If posted in gold lettering on the inside door of every privy and every public convenience in the Land.

In this day and age, where else can a gentleman find the time to properly concentrate on literature?

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

Advice to young readers.

Hopefully the lapse into free verse in my last post did not leave the lyrical foundations of your psyche shaken.

The last--or maybe the second to last--thing on Earth I would wish to do as a poet, a prophet, or a purveyor of fine, rectified spirits would be to send you out lurching into the night--like a little lost lamp--with nothing concrete to hold on to.

Concrete may not be the most comforting substance to grasp--I prefer men wrapped in mink--but, as a writer, I find that whatever delicacy concrete lacks in terms of Art, it more than makes up for in rude Reality.

Enjoy.


Love is a Luxury

Love is a luxury you can’t afford;
I know that this knowledge may cause you pain
But who has time for tenderness, or
All of this messing around in the rain?

Come over here, precious, under this light:
Now, let me have a good look at you.
You probably gave your Mom quite a fright
When you emerged from that Bar and said, “Boo!”

I am just kidding. Isn’t Life funny?
Almost nobody has a good time—
Even on days when it’s more or less sunny...
Well, here’s my advice and a dime.

The lips, they cost extra. So does the bed.
And a goon with a gun collects the fee.
So, don’t let his liquor go to your head.
You will be charged for everything—you see?