Category Archives: Poetry

quenched

31 Wednesday May 2023

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This is not Whitman’s city of orgies,

flesh and funky like the poet declared.

This is a courtyard without grass or trees.

At night it’s the only space that we’ve dared

venture into. My mouth glued to your hard

nipples. Your tongue tangy from the cold-salt

of my skin. Kissing each finger, the scarred

flesh of my arms, each shiny pink-cobalt

slice. The world falls for hard men and soft boys;

since I’m neither I have no purpose here …

except to please you. Down the fire escape.

Against the wall. Haunted with city noise;

as in, your cunt quenched without shame or fear.

My ghost fingers. My cadaverous shape.

][][

Note:

The good, gray poet, Walt Whitman, once referred to Manhattan as, “the city of orgies,” which still makes me chortle whenever it comes up in conversation.

barmy

28 Sunday May 2023

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, sonnet

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On the sad, bad days, when I am naked

and gray as heath, I wander dazed throughout

the old orchard, fruit rotting in the mud,

straw and twigs in my hair. On the burnout

days, days without dream, days where tall grass

strokes my glory as I pass, when I gasp

as I give, my cum dotting our morass,

I know I won’t come back as some phat-ass

ghost to amuse, a swine herder’s wet dream.

No. I’ll be your twitchy soul. Forgotten.

Naked in a world that mocks nudity

and calls masturbation a mean blaspheme.

Prophecy has left me sick with passion

without a purpose, unfulfilled, barmy.

thew

27 Saturday May 2023

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Even on hands and knees No still means No,

so I pull out, bent over your shoulder,

kissing your scarred face. Half of your afro

never grew back from where your ex-lover,

a man you’d called pimp, had thrown the acid.

“Pumped a lot of tane down in New Orleans,”

Tina crooned on the record player. “Flood

me,” you’d say, meaning, “fuck me like we’re teens

again,” awash in cum. I’ve kissed each seam

in your flesh, the stitched space where your eye sat,

all your fused thew. Sometimes I can feel you

unclench around me, convulse, crash and scream.

Gimme safe, love, when, “nice and rough,” falls flat,

and Proud Mary’s, “nice and easy,” won’t do.

][][

Notes:

“Thew,” is an old-fashion term for muscles and tendons. As far as I can gather, “tane” is short for octane, or perhaps gasoline. In Ike and Tina Turner’s version of Proud Mary, Tina explains, “We never ever do nothing/ nice and easy./ We always do it nice and rough,” which is fabulous, unless one’s PTSD gets in the way. We’re all works in progress, I suppose.

drive-thru

26 Friday May 2023

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Kissing at the red light you’d pull your scrubs

to your knees and let me inhale. What’s one

more stain to a nurse? Hints of Doms and Subs

had hit a nerve. “My husband isn’t fun

like that,” you murmured. After the drive-thru

I’d go down on you, tonguing inner thighs,

belly folds, cleavage and cleft. “Make me spew.”

And you did. A scent of girl cum, French fries

and pine would cling to me all day. Sluice rhymes.

Anxious breath. Things that adults did, I thought,

were weird. Was this cool? Fonzie-level cool?

Who knew? It was how we spent our lunchtimes.

You with this anxious child. “It’s our secret,”

you’d say, dropping me back at middle school.

][][

Notes:

With his trademark, “Ayyy,” dressed in a leather jacket and riding a motorcycle, Arthur Fonzarelli, better know as Fonzi or The Fonz, was a character from the 1970-80s TV show, Happy Days … and I was at that age where the pinnacle of cool had to be either David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust or Fonzi, even with that episode where he jumped the shark.

bodyke

24 Wednesday May 2023

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“An’ oi double dag dare yer,” you giggled,

slipping out of your jeans. The Red Cedar

river was rank, sluggish and straggled

across campus. Still, where else could, “lager

louts,” go skinny dipping? Exchange students

were freaks. County Clare vibe tribe? Bodyke cock

shock? You started each sentence with, “me cunt’s

fancy.” Groovy. You loved punk. I loved schlock.

Between dark flowing kisses you reached down,

grabbed my ass and impaled yourself on me.

Back when I’d do anything for a dare;

even if it meant that I’d cum and drown.

Perhaps others stopped to watch our drunk glee.

Aglow, you sighed, “loike oi’m back ‘um in Clare.”

][][

Notes:

The Red Cedar river runs through Michigan State University, where I went for my undergraduate studies. Lager lout is slang for any offensively drunk, boorish behavior. Bodyke is a town in County Clare, Ireland.

kafir

23 Tuesday May 2023

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“Hair is a nakedness,” your mother taught ––

which is why you kept yours veiled. And, “never

bring home white boys or kafirs.” Those were fraught

times. If schisms can start from mere fractures

after school ran riot in my bedroom ––

as inch by heathen inch pushed past your hips’ fleece;

a slow burn in piercing you to your womb ––

Your hair bare. Our flesh awash in sweat, grease

and cum. “When I graduate,” you said, “She’ll

send me home.” She’d pledged you to a cousin.

“Three months!” you cried. We rampaged in secret.

We were dissent’s loving revolt. “Yesh, spill

your seed … on my face!” Three months of heathen

bliss, like what the dumb beasts do when they rut.

][][

Notes:

Kafir is a derogatory term in Islamic tradition and refers to a non-Muslim.

proclivity

22 Monday May 2023

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Paris. Twelve hour lay-over. Last gay club

before Peace Corps. “You’re gossamery,” she said.

“I like that in boys … Call me your Arab

Auntie.” O weird drag name, I thought, my head

between her thighs. And, because I was stoned

on cheap spliffs and she was Anaïs Nin cool

and I’d dreamed of being left unchaperoned

with a wolfish adult (“Primary School

Climax.” “School Bus Orgy.” “I was Seven

before I was Ate.”), her clit felt scrumptious

under my tongue. How queer, a real auntie

in this rank Men’s Room. One last Parisian

surprise before a world where lush lewdness

was less, “proclivity,” and more theory.

thralldom

18 Thursday May 2023

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Both of your thick, sick thighs and the scratchy

flick rope binding my wrists will leave bruises.

Good. I’m greedy for scars. You bend a knee

and wet heat, mixed with your musky juices,

sprinkles my lips. Mewl, I said, make me mewl.

I am famished for that; that sort of pain ––

your faith claims waits for me in hell. A cruel

candle will not last the night, you explain,

snuffing the hot wax out on my shoulder ––

I thought thralldom would be a bore. But what’s

the point of nerves if they don’t sing? Scars bunch

up and down my thighs where you have tortured

my flesh; a whipping boy for the flay’s cuts;

which is to say, I’ve grown hard to your touch.

adástsooʼ

14 Sunday May 2023

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Adááʼ (lip). Atsooʼ (tongue). I might not know

the words for for lust or thrust or that wet greased

growl that you make with jaws stretched as you show

me just how far I can go –– but at least

you taught me to say adástsooʼ. We mapped

out our bodies with skull-fucking, hair

pulling and the heat of the day still trapped

in the skin of your pickup. This is prayer

as well. Not Bilagáana or Dineh

prayer, but still holy. Something to drive nine

hundred miles for. Somewhere out in the owl’s

light a goat bleats. Tomorrow we will pray

again without the need for language, mine

or yours, just our untranslatable howls.

][][

Notes:

In Diné bizaad (the Navajo language), adástsooʼ is the word for the clit. Bilagáana is an older term for white people (such as myself). Owl’s light is another way of talking about the dusk. 900 hundred miles is a reference to Judy Grahn’s “Love rode 1500 miles on a grey hound bus & climbed in my window one night to surprise both of us.” I’ve always adored that poem.

gambol

05 Friday May 2023

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The day is dead and lain in fog – not, “laid

in fog.” That’s when the city’s odd twilight

rolls in, turning streetlights wispy, decayed,

grotesque. Among the shadows our delight

comes when we gambol and glow. All that wet

air, pools of cool oil, smeared by ghostly palms

between your breasts. Morass of dew and sweat.

“Straddle me,” you say, kneeling with maelstroms

in your cunt, tempests in my cock. I curl

down the valley of your cleavage. “Seismic

upheaval?” Indeed. Slickness, all foggy

and cum-splattered around your neck; a pearl

necklace. Drastic love: the sort of drastic

pleasures others just dream about, dimly.