Jonathan Swift

Dean of odd ducks, he dipped his pen

In a funny ink, distilled from the Furies

Holy manure: he hated man

Bespattered with shit, shouting, "Yahoo!"

Famished as Death, he fed the lord

A suckling child, the choicest meat

Butchered on his block. The King of Beasts,

Society, laughed and licked its chops.

Harelip in hand, Irony hoped

He fancied her figure. Her fractured face

Broke in two smiles. Smitten with love,

He kissed her palm, "Let's kill the light."

Life on Earth

For Wendy

Eyes fastened to a lightning bug

dipping down, I saw this slug

sitting on a gray flagstone.

He looked depressed. He sat alone,

pointing antennae at the sky

like an astronomer. I

forgot my bug, distracted by

those turning aerials. One rose

slightly higher from his head

and stiffened strangely when I said,

“I wonder what you’re listening for?

God walking in the garden or

a killer asteroid? A mate?

A Frenchman carrying a plate?”

Always curious to see

how others look at you and me,

I quickly rattled off my list

of possibilities. But his

response was slow. I still can hear

that dreadful silence. Loud and clear.

Untitled

  

            My first foray into the world of friction [sic] was an untitled piece I slaved over for two years in the mid-nineties. As I envisioned the work at the time, when I was twenty-six and obsessed with Thurber, this would be the first in a series of Jamesian character studies centered around academic life.

            In the opening tale, Jack (34) returns triumphant from a contentious conference in Boulder, Colorado, where he delivered a provocative paper on the position of commas in the sex life of Gibbons (collateral descendants of the famous historian of Rome) at the Modern Language Association’s Annual Conference: only to find his boxer, Elgin—Marbles, for short—dreaming of beef marrow bones in an inaccessible crotch of an elm in his courtyard.

            As Eve (34), his girlfriend, is out shopping for fruit-flavored lubricants and other gluten-free delicacies with her best pre-op friend, Paulette (28), visiting from Portland, and President Clinton is downtown distracting the rest of the neighbors, most of the story we spend with the perplexed young adjunct, orbiting the tree: trying to figure out just how the dog came to be there. Jack advances several different theories, all equally credible: extraterrestrials, an earthquake, a mountain lion, Mustafa Kemal, ghosts, a tri-cobalt satellite (left over from an episode of Star Trek), the black magic of his gardener (Barney Haller), a cantankerous kite string, or a confabulation of faeries.

            For five pages we wander in circles with Jack under this tedious tree, looking up at his dreaming dog, trying figure out just what has gone wrong with the forces of Nature in this idyllic corner of Iowa. It never occurs to Jack to wait for Eve and Paulette to return with the fruit-flavored lubricants and gluten-free delicacies and ask them; or to call the fire department; or to grab the aluminum ladder the painters left under the lilacs and try to rescue his dog himself, so lost he becomes in a maze of sensitive semiotic questions arising from the presence of a dog in the crotch of such a tall tree: since, as you will notice, the word “Dog” spelled backwards is “God.” And we all know in what mysterious ways THAT gentleman works.

            Sadly, I never got further with this story than the thin filament of drool connecting Elgin above—Marbles, for short—to the Earth below, before I abandoned it as totally unworkable. Plausible as the image of a fictitious dog sleeping in a fictitious tree might seem to me, I couldn’t imagine anyone else would believe it.

            Except for the people of PETA, who would have hopped in a minivan and been over in a flash to burn down my house.

Eric and Michael meet...

“Hello,” he said, standing to the side, so I could get a better view of his crotch.

            “Hi,” I replied.

            “You are new here. You work for that crazy Czech bitch upstairs, don’t you?”

            “Yes.”

            “You are Michael, right?”

            “How do you know that? Have you been spying on me?” His eyes narrowed into slits and he edged behind his books, leaning lightly against the rear of the truck, teasing the wood, swaying on the tips of his toes from side to side.

            “I am a spy,” I said, “I have eyes everywhere. You had better watch out.” I whispered confidentially, lowering the Atlas I was carrying, glad I held a whole planet behind which my desires could hide.

            “If you are a spy, tell me who you work for?” He moved from behind the book truck.

            He had nothing to hide.

            “I am a freelancer. I sell my secrets to the highest bidder.”

            “Well, I’m pretty high so you had best pony up, Mr.,” he said, tossing his head and his hair back with a gotcha laugh, and slapping the top of his truck with such farcical force it caused one of the books he had been in the middle of shelving, something by Hemingway, I think, to slump to its face between us, leaving poor old Papa a defeated but delirious man, ass in the air, eyes closed, mouth open wide.

            “I’m Eric.”

            “I know who you are. I have spies, too. I know you live in Brooklyn. I know you have a boyfriend. I know everything about you,” he said, looking down, “even your dick size.” He brandished his copy of The Idiot, as if he would club me with it. “My spies are Russian. I asked them to find out who that guy was working for Misha. I might want to fuck him sometime.”

            I didn’t know what to say.

            I nearly dropped the world I was holding.

            “I caught you there. Didn’t I? Didn’t expect that. Listen, you are new to New York. You are from Boston. I will do all of the talking. I’m from Detroit. I have lived here for two years. Let’s get a beer first, after work. We can go to The Abbey.”

            Here, he paused.

            “It isn’t gay.”

            Another pause. His eyes narrowed again.

            “Are you gay?”

            “No. Are you?”
            “Nope.”
            Under the circumstances, without actually unzipping and taking each other’s pulse there and then, what else could we say?
            “Good. I go to The Abbey after work all of the time. The barmaids love me. Meet me at five o’clock at the main entrance outside.”

            With that, he carted himself, Dostoyevsky, my heart, and everything resembling Reason away.
            I turned around, leaned out the door and watched him go down the corridor. He bent, slightly,  steering the truck with one hand while he adjusted his cock with the other.
            He was right handed, too.
            I leaned the atlas against the wall and also fixed mine.
            I was glad nobody ever came to this section of the library.
            It was now ours.
            I shut off the lights and went over to the window and looked up at the sky.

            It was getting dark.

            It was snowing. A few light taps struck the windowpane. I expect the snow was general all over Long Island, including the borough of Brooklyn, where Nat lay in a fever, dozing under a warm green satin quilt of Nyquil all day.
            Nat.
            By now, my erection had subsided.
            I could go back to the office.

            I would see Michael in an hour, at five.

            

A Villanelle for St. Valentine

When I consider the curve of your cock
in even this mild, mathematical way,
I notice strange images start to knock.

Sticky things, mostly, and things made of rock.
A petrified marshmallow showed up today.
He either was stale, or scared by your cock.

So, I sent him away. A while back Bach
appeared at my door. He started to play
a sort of pipe organ. Bach did not knock.

Nor did his friends. He arrived with a flock
of cherry-faced cherubs and a golden bidet
with the weirdest fixtures—all curved like your cock.

Now, very few stores keep cherubs in stock,
which is why I thank God for Bach and eBay
whenever strange men with strange instruments knock.

And speaking of knocking, I think I forgot
to mention something. What I meant to say
concerned a key more than it did a cock.
This is for you. No need no more to knock.

Ulysses and Penelope

For Gavin

Ulysses and Penelope, maybe
I was wrong to look at us this way—
as human beings, not the things we are:
demigods, a race apart. Although
it kills me to admit mistakes, so
be it. In San Francisco, I shall see
you only commit bestiality.

Curriculum Vitae

For Gavin

Something human I can hold. If only
cameras captured living things. It seems like
we’re coming to that freakish place where
men are less mythic, monolithic, flesh
and blood. This must be where the talk-
ing stops, we start to smell something strange,
like gas. We look into each other’s eyes
and see our limits and desires for the first
time. “Is that the moon in there or me?”
We ask the odd homonculi reflected in
our skulls if these small images are souls,

our words wide open windows where
the breeze is soft and tropical. Or gas.
I’m in New York and I have nothing but
a leaky oven here to keep me warm—
words and pictures to manipulate:
the lease I signed allows no other pets.
Maybe I’ll make a cup of tea. First
a piss. It sounds like rain. Listen. Words.
They have no taste, no texture, and no smell.
These are my poems. They are sad—pale
yellow substitutes for the pink tongue

I crave to run along your clean crack.
I wish that words were more reassuring
like maps. I’ve been studying your woods,
you know, North Carolina, your intended
home. I would kill to climb a tree. Should I
apply for a position there? A pine cone?
A cat? A forest pixie? I’ll submit
a sample of my urine—my Curriculum
Vitae. Not my life. A sketch. A crude
outline in a tiddle-cup. Feel free
to test it, once you’ve fed the chickens.

My family is…they’re far away. I called
my granny twice a day for 20 years.
She had a massive stroke last summer, died
in church, just as I said the day before.
I never miss appointments. I’d prefer
a fling with Figaro to Madame Butterfly—
one happy ending to three hours of drama.
My favorite English poem is “To His
Coy Mistress.” My favorite poet must be this
guy, Gavin Dillard, although it is a photo-
finish: you and Shakespeare tied with Ovid.

My cock is 19 inches. Hard. It is.
I’ve never measured its circumference, nor
received complaints about its size—just groans—
which don’t count as complaints. I do like dogs.
I detest Mark Doty. Overwritten. Overrated.
I love one man at a time. I have this
trouble separating my dick from my heart.
I manage desolation with a dildo, since
it doesn’t leave an aftertaste like bad cologne.
I’d rather swim than dance, unless it is
to slam with skins. I worry I will die alone.

Magic

Searching in my pockets, I produce:
A single linty stick of cinnamon
Dentine, some change, a cell phone number—whose—
Who knows? It’s yours. I have lost a button.

My fingers smell like cinnamon, the change
Amounts to eighty-seven cents—thirteen
Cents shy of one whole dollar. What a strange
Taste those missing pennies give Dentine.

I take my pants off, turn the pockets out,
I shake them by the legs, up and down:
Nothing else drops out. I want to shout:
Where is that button! Then I turn around

To find you naked, groaning, close to tears—
Because I hold my pants like rabbit ears.

Thank you

Takaaki, I just love these boxer shorts:
My balls are big so they bounce easier
When dancing now and a hard-on distorts
The fabric. Breezier—not sleazier—

Than those tight briefs I’m used to wearing,
They ride two inches lower on my hips.
My mother tells me that I am sharing
My ass with everyone. The waistband slips.

I tell her Newton will not be denied
His little apple. If that fruit is me—
Who am I to argue? I take pride
In all the interest which gravity

Shows in my bum—electricity, too—
Each force in nature binding me to you.

Kine off Stranj

One of the things we constantly do battle against here at wheniwasoneandtwenty (besides the idiocy of the perfidious French) is the abuse and corruption of the English language. In this effort, we are aided by our loyal and attentive readers. (Ladies and gentlemen, we kiss your hands.)

Fortunately, we are lucky to count among our Yeomen of the Tongue one Wild William, Earl of Hensley, a man whose martial grace in the Field of Grammar is exceeded only by his ability to mix a martini.

Today, in response to his recent riposte to a rapscallion bent on mangling the marvelous marital conjunction of IT and IS, we have composed a short, chatty note of congratulation, applauding his efforts on our behalf.

Thus.

Wild Won!

Its kine off stranj how mane riders do not no how its difer’s frum it’s an how adled grow the wit's off the litul shit’s wen won poyn’s it owt too em: tha then tri dufendin the grumateculy indifensible, lik its som kine off Art.

Wise it so hart for thez genus’s ta atmit tha gooft? Onestle. I goof awl the tim. I no wut kine off boob I am. I am awlwaz recevin litul reminderz from Microsof wurd. I dont min admitten it: I injoy it. Tha shood litn up an injoy it, to. Lif’s to shot. [Short.] Edyucated beon thar inteligint’s, clerly. Yor dum frend proble wen ta Ox Fort or Ardvark. [Harvard?] Mine all did.

Az fur me, I am continyuin ta injoy a nise corespondint’s with a splendit rider, a poit, who techz ridin in Hard Fort. Weve ben talkin about growin apel’s an findin fosil’s, wich makz a plezan’t chanj frum politik’s, dont yu think?

Tonite I am goin ta the jim fur spinin an then ta diner with Murea. Thi’s wek end Iv nuthin plant eksept fur goin ta the jim, writin, an re-redin H. W. Foulers Dickshunhairy off Modrun Inglish. Yusuj. Avtur redin yore not, I think I ned ta re-vu som topik’s.

Luf and kis’s,
-E.

As you can see, even if you try, it is really a lot harder to fuck up completely than it seems. One must make a very determined, demented effort.

On Hats

Today I was very disappointed that I was not able to find a hat, one that would be the perfect complement to my light summer wardrobe. I traveled all over Manhattan to no avail. Not a single hat I liked. All the baseball caps I tried on left lines on my forehead that made me look like a pygmy Frankenstein. I really need no help there, thank you, given my present sepulchral pallor. I blame global warming. After 6 months of shoveling sun out of the driveway each morning, one is apt to look a little wan.

Of course, I wish I could say my inability to find a hat was the fault of capitalism failing to produce the one article of headgear vital to my continued health, prosperity and happiness, but I can't: I found many hats, it's just that none of them fit: a clear case of supply and demand. Half of the time my head was too small, the other half it was too big. By about 3:00pm, I was beginning to feel like some sort of middle-class cephalic monstrosity.

Therefore, I have written a letter to the President on the subject of the hat crisis and the middle-class. I urged the President to forget taking over the banks, the auto industry, the health care system, our mortgages, our credit cards, energy production, egg production, chicken production, the Moon, Mars, and the Sombrero Galaxy, the silliest galaxy ever to take shape in space [see illustration above]. What we really need right now are medium-sized hats, Sir, I said, speaking on behalf of my fellow citizens. Healthy heads require healthy hats. A man can only do so much about the shapes of gallstones and galaxies, Mr. President, I reminded him, even a man so gifted in gallstone and galactic formation as you.

Even though I was not his supporter in the recent election, I tried to maintain the respectful, reverential tone of address appropriate to the divinity his office. But I am not sure I always succeeded. I did try, I assure you. The fact is, it's rather difficult to write a letter to a public official of President Obama's exalted stature when you are somewhat vertically-challenged, like I am. It is well nigh impossible to do it when you are not wearing the appropriate hat.
I hope the Secret Service will understand my predicament and not take it amiss.