everybody knows that the

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bigger the pervert the more tyrannous
are their gods keeping tempting blasphemes

at bay there’s not a single monstrous
bible-thumper whose erotic day-dreams

if they were known could set the skies on fire
with shock and horror that’s just how boring

they are I’ve no problem with desire
our two tongues delicately slithering

gagging down your syrupy sex eager
barbaric yawps until at last you squirt

over me pity the so-called faithful
who have no faith in themselves or pleasure

who must take these divine gifts and pervert
them no wonder their god is so wrathful

spectral saliva on my lips

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Dec 22, 2013 (1)

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][][

I love you better than
that girl and her orphan

boy at the railing
of the paddle boat, steam

and straw hats and dickies
a shower of rice push

through my skin thin fabric
you pull out in the places

and plumb the drifts
down the coast I bend

down the blade where
you whispered is so sharp

it burns my neck skin on
my body all upset Saul

spectral saliva on my lips
gasping I kiss your open

blood bliss you’ve
just gone numb

zora neale huston

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Dec 20, 2013 (8)

Dec 20, 2013 (9)

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(January 7, 1891 – January 28, 1960) was an American folklorist, anthropologist, author, working during the time of the Harlem Renaissance. Of Hurston’s four novels and more than 50 published short stories, plays, and essays, she is perhaps best known for her 1937 novel Their Eyes Were Watching God.

Despite her skill and talent she did not receive the sort of fame and support other male members of the Harlem Renaissance. This was due to many factors. Readers at the time objected to the representation of African-American dialect in her novels, claiming it as a caricature of African-American culture rooted in a racist tradition. Critics such as Richard Wright and Ralph Ellison charged that her work wasn’t “political and as a result there are no theme, no message, no thought [in Hurston’s work].” Hurston last years were marked with extreme poverty, working as a maid and finally dying homeless.

Many years after her death an article, “In Search of Zora Neale Hurston,” by Alice Walker, revived interest in her work. Other authors such as Toni Morrison and Maya Angelou, championed her work as well. One modern critic has pointed out that “[Wright and Ellison], while interested in that which fit into their narrow view of ‘political’ but were quick to dismiss anything written by a woman, especially a woman who might question their own prejudices and views.” In 2002, scholar Molefi Kete Asante listed Zora Neale Hurston on his list of 100 Greatest African Americans.

daughters of the kaiten: female deep sea divers in art

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Dec 20, 2013 (1)

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note:

The Kaiten (回天), a Japanese term, loosely translated means, “Heaven Shaker” or “Change the World.” Ultimately it was the term used to describe human-torpedoes and other suicide-craft used by the Imperial Japanese Navy in the final stages of World War II. I use it here because it has a far older meaning that has since been lost, that of doing something so spectacular it changes the heavens and the seas forever.

The images used here are of various experimental deep sea scuba diving suits, though the last is of the 1880 actress Sarah Bernhardt in a diving suit while playing the role of the Ocean Empress (photographer unknown).

you, me and margo channing

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Dec 18, 2013 (3)

It was those thousand years of poetry
before “cocksucker” appeared in print, back

when Free Verse was the bad boy with acne
and brylcreem. When simply writing, “sick,” “smack,”

“junk,” “cunt,” made you historic. Those twee times,
niminy-piminy with dead white dollops

and all that rot. Poems should work like lines
of pure cocaine. If they don’t fuck you up

then its crap. I want verse that you must rinse
in blood to understand, cut all the rust

of your tum to open. Write lines demanding
guts. Yours. Spilled like great art. But I’m crap since

I can’t figure out how to do that just
now you’ll have to settle for this warning.

and a little more of my childhood dies

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Dec 18, 2013 (1)

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“don’t worry, we did just fine …”

ah, grief. this is my teddy bear. he’s 43 years-old, given to my by my uncle on the day of my birth. i’m sharing him with you because we all have something that we love and keep secret from everyone else. i don’t even know who is reading this but, please, when my time comes as it does for everyone please make sure he’s buried with me. i do not want to spend eternity without at least one friend by my side.

edge of my skin [2]

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Dec 17, 2013 (4)

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I still remember your touch, after all
of this time every time I close my eyes

I go back again to that night; the small
softness of your fingers, all those dumb lies

I said to keep you as you grazed my skin
with your lips as our tongues touched. How could I

have kept you safe from my zealots? Cretin
you should have called me, not lover. Defy

us, we who burn witches and call it truth.
We who preach hate and call it love. Wake, wake,

love, in this aftermath, although entwined
around you, our Eden ends. Faith, like youth,

knows all. How can I claim that my heart breaks
when I let — when I’m a child, vain and blind?

edge of my skin

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Dec 17, 2013 (5)

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Remembering that night makes desire
shake once again. I play it over in

my mind — the thrill of memory sets fire
to my nerves — I’m on the edge of my skin

aching to be set free with your mouth, hand,
tongue all that makes me feel that we did this

before, we’ll do this again. I expand
down your throat. When you part your grave-fresh thighs

I kiss all that I can find. Science still
can’t teach us if orgasms aren’t or are

human sublimity that we call faith.
I know that you came through the door to kill

me, I know that I love you: thief, bizarre
ghost girl, libido, love, barrow wraith.

calling this evil

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Where did you read this crap? Some fake shaman
selling pure bullshit by the pound? Nekros

means “dead.” Manteia means “divination.”
But the opposite isn’t medicus,

as in “healer,” it is fraus, as in “fraud.”
As in refusing the world of Spirit.

As in calling this evil; that sad, odd
faith that refuses all that does not fit

easily. Black? White? Dualism sucks.
If you don’t call on the dead to guide you

who do you call? The man-made gods who burn
witches? That’s like turning to the eunuchs

for sex advice. Embrace the dead, you who
will be one soon. Watch. Listen. Fucking learn.