Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Window Dressing (First Go)


The story of a Boy is the simplest story of all
“Pick up your shoes from the hall!”
That is all.


Sinuous urinals and doorless stalls of a Tree Grows in Brooklyn
But first: here we are old enough to remember
Which insects we discovered in what order,
And which leaves die first
And which names of which streets are mysteries
And tell of scheduled visions,
            A three channel love affair adjusted with a fork.


We are born into a crowded world if we are lucky
We are born into well-buttoned sweaters
And storied basement spelunker career moves

Before you even notice it
We are born into unassailable truths and paradisiacal futures
Holidays with a capital Ache,
Math for geniuses and
Meat is still a good thing.


On the horizon anonymous marks on the horizon line
Two point perspective, me and the other me
On calamitous collision course with wish fulfillment.

“Hair and the increasing variety of the proof of our bodies.”


It is only the body that means anything
Underwater or puffed up on sugar fried in the
Sanguineous oleagination of love.
Amazed we are not a nation of diabetics
Instead of the broken hearted moguls our
Supply side ménage have fantasized.


The boy’s body – nowhere to go but up.
Follow it with spontaneous herald -
Social Studies is anything but
With designer jeans recessive in a few years
And the bathroom bolted against self-discovery.


Dissolve then, so simple
Into the front and center lactations of little deathly collapses
Is it really where it begins? 
For the story of a man, yes,
Less simple but no more complicated.
            Lord Jesus Christ you never told me it could feel so good.
Hail the herald of the sun!
Compulsive milkyway emissary!  Galaxies within us!


The price, a certain loss of control.  But submit before you are subjected
And learn to see in God’s inconvenient timing
The warrior potential in your stubby.           

Would it be cliché to speak now of pencils?  Certainly
One thing follows another, but what is good for physics
Does not apply to poetry
(But then again it does)


Few things are as erotic as the mother son bond.
Instead, skip Church and save your soul.

I watched my dad urinate, you know.  I will spare you
The horrors.  Good I was already in the bath already
And could wash away, you know, the honor.


The society of men: An essay in multiple parts by author deleted
Who is a Man himself and thus of unique qualifications to expound on the above subject.

Part one – The expletive deleted
Part two – The “brain”
Part Three – The heart and its conspirators
Part Four – Youth and pride
Part Five – Postponed till next
Part Six – The inevitable mistaken


Free Association Therapy: Big 80’s
Whither the beef?
The Berlin New Wave
Every breath– what a fucking disappointment
Freebasing that summer Susie sat-house with the pool. I dove and sloughed away our teenage skins for all of us.  Good as it’s cracked up to be.  Becoming:
            Weightless crystalline ambition, till half an hour later all was heck
The Downtown Scene (general and specific)
Off the Wall
My underwear is stuck to my prick, so good your
            Hips felt on the floor of the sunroom, blackened
            With ficus and wicker and Eames recliner
            And amateur masterpieces from a similar era when art was
            Something we all still
            Loved and knew nothing about.
First smoked pot in the basement and after decamping to the backyard I tossed                             Spaghetti
                 Over The Fence to the neighbors
                But it was just an arbitrary boundary.
               A world seething with aliveness, interconnectecated, ya dig?
Drama class, Tea and Sympathy, pause between lines
    Because I am on the phone
Friday’s Mescaline;
            On the running track I became bird, curvature, Aztec wind
I am in love with my best friend’s armpits
Murphy’s law
Slaughterhouse Five
Oil of Olay
My dick my dick.  Am I ever done talking about my dick?
            Thanks Dad for being Italian
            Thanks Mom for letting Dad


The Russians have taken over the neighborhood and now the math team
The chess team belongs to them alone


Full disclosure I fucked a fifteen year old (I was seventeen she took my cherry but had prior lost hers to a twenty one year image who drove up from Florida on his bike and dumped her)  I fucked the Cornell barbarians too. A wooly Jew pussy at the time a wee bit repulsive but now such foresty cunts obsess me.  I saw mother showering.  The water ran over her breasts and rivulets off her own pubic mess and I thought she was peeing.  Doctor?

There has never been anything Oedipal at all, which is not to say
There haven’t been moments I wanted my mother


An aggressive strain of obsessive-compulsive disorder
Has taken over my room and I have lost my
              Eyeglass for good


I found these magazines in the basement ceiling
And after you (only direct reference) died we found the cash and the grass

Cell differentiation
Gastrula blastula, preppy, jock , nerd, nuclear waste in overdyed
Canal street bargain bin awkwardness.  Other brothers in Jean-Paul
Or speedball blackglama VIP room snake pit cocksucker couture


If a fork splits what is it called?
And then when it returns to the road,
What then?
I follow my pee stream over such
Cartographical anomalies
Back to myself because I am infantile and fascinated with the world
That begins and ends with me.  
            I bang, you whimper and this is how the world is made
            Architects, I am tireless pharaoh
            And a thousand sexy slaves in thongs raise my
At night we worship Baal
Because it just feels so fucking good

I wrote the part of God and I will cunt her scenes
To fit the tale


Now the afternoons are that much more predetermined
Fulfill bourgeois expectations in café reminiscent establishments
In a new century where no one knows what anything means
But what the heck pretend it is meaningful
Or just don’t care at all.  It is a momentous
If pretty lame choice to be left with. 
But that is the world at large and we were already deeply
Engaged in me.  And I know misery enjoys company
If it can wait long enough

I am a century too late, maybe a bit more
But there is no cure for
Chronicological distemper but patience and wine.


Sixteen ways of looking at the same thing:
(To be filled in later)


More all-purpose with the emphasis on all.
Don’t fall for it.
This becoming that.  An easy way out or in.
Four years beating around the bush

The sheet of glass.
Eyeglasses are a mask
So what is a window?  Some elaborate garment
All bustle and cage and seamless seams of transparent not dreams
For vain cowards.

We shall return to this theme in time.


Hitting a milestone – why doesn’t the car breakdown then?


I never dreamed I would make it this far with nothing
I run on fumes, dizzying and smelling like crap
My nose is like my prick, more like it even than the thing itself
So much more directly connected to feckless Eros
The little bitch himself summering in Turkey, not the real one but
The image of a perfect Anatolia
As historical and central to the development of western thought
At the picture of Wet Pink
Larry Flynt, long lost Papa suiciding
Spermy and horrible.
I have run out of steam many times, my deflated distractions
Stuck to my leg.
Remember thou art hairy
And thus a man but I am not made a man by my hair
But by my cowardice in the estimation of
A thousand blonde centerfolds and tax returns.
Know though, o wise one, that hungriness is reflexive
I have a taste for the food I am too.

Don’t bother.
I am done trying to figure it all out, isn’t knowing enough enough?
Lets pretend the mistakes are accidents
Lets believe in that mythic idea of the endlessness of love
And all its manifestations being
Right and pure but ultimately painful, sheer torture really.
Insert British accent here, all merchants of ivory despoiling the
Belle letters of better halves.


Window dressing
And we have arrived.
I am naked composing and one day will decompose in a silly suit.
The dead man’s necktie redundant
And shoes an awful loss.

Five hundred lives behind the glass
The quiet one in the fraternity and not an idea what to do
With the fact we are all stars and tragic figures
Mommas stories is on and I am talented
The city pays attention.
She has never let me down even with the knee on the neck

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