Pornography Disclaimer

This is a an imaginary diary of facts, confessions, or messages. This is a notebook of working but broken ideas, lines, images, notes on books I'm reading, writers I admire, and brief fantasies of language. Here unfiltered  all mannerings pseudo-private, publicized, ur-. Here I am art and unrevealed: poetic, political and pop. These are my moonlit rough beginnings and should not be taken literally, directly, truthfully, reliably, and none of it is legally binding. These lies are all choreographed, but only haphazardly. Beware.



. . . . .

This is how I feel about Men and Manuscripts.

One and his fetish for 21yearolds.

One and his sun, his waves, his thieves. Poem after poem, pages and pages of IT--before the title, before the order, before I've been able to let the drowned ones go.

One and his mirror. One and his fear.

One and his fetish for bald beefy men, even though he lets me
put my hand in his pants in the bar. Even though I've known him for years.
And kiss his neck from behind.
Even though he says I love you.

One and his piano, fake rockstar.

My lips on his ear. His tease
like a hurtful confusion between bewilderment and dream.

One who is reading. One who is being read.

The flesh is singing out, and singing. It's answering the constellations of no eyes.

One lovely with his boardgames and his brains and his beautiful body.

One and his fetishes, trying to sound romantic, but the pages sometimes feel like they're stolen from his cruel diary.

. . . . .

Tonight I'm trying not to sound like an essay about grammar. Instead I'm pasting in a gold star for my solitude.

NOTES ON A SCANDAL. Lovely! But it would make a better play, I think. The theater is the actor's medium, not the eye's.
Imagine a box of gold stars flung across the stage.

Though the moment of a gold star on Cate Blanchett's heel has its glamour.

What is revenge? The way our words create us, lie to us, give us love. The way we use them to get what we desire. Imaginary but Masterful Manipulaters.

It's been a long time since I've felt myself in love and needed to destoy.
My lips on his neck from behind. My breath in his ear.
And Heat in his sleep. My sleep
in his nearness, inside the hot slumber of hours.

I wonder if love is just another deathwish. Or is celebration a protest?

Friends and Strangers, the spiritual quest is a question of morbidity.

. . . . .

. . . . .

Friends and Strangers, if your heart is not his clear gaze stopped by your disaster, how do you know it's not just emptiness coursing through?

Who's afraid of the big bad wolf? Big bad wolf.

So here we are to live and wound the Nothing. With orgasm and promises spoken in the dark.

So here we are in the embrace of the body's darkness. Who do you threaten, who do you accuse with the promises of your bare need?

. . . . .

From "Te Mueres de Casta Y de Sencilla" by Miguel Hernandez:

"El fantasma del beso delincuente
el pomulo te tiene perseguido,
cada vez mas patente, negro y grande.

Y sin dormir estas, celosamente,
vigilando mi boca !con que cuido!
para que no se vicie y se desmande."

An Obscene Liberal Translation by Miguel Murphy:

My kiss is a phantom. A specter
like a miscreant, delinquent on your body. My kiss
pursues and persecutes you. On your body
I leave my phantom. The ghost
of my kiss each time gets heavier,

darker, more immense. My kiss is the stain
of my jealous adoration--the heat
of its absence like a blossom to your sleep.
You'll have to stay awake. You'll have to.

Without sleep, and with jealousy
with intensity and care! In your insomnia
you'll guard the flower of my mouth
and keep your nightly vigils
for my lips to kiss you and to leave you!

. . . . .

Friends and Strangers, the threat of love is the thrill!

. . . . .

1 comment:

m. butterfly said...

when the threat of love comes your way it reminds me of a vacant canary yellow chinese food restaurant with its brick red awning designed from the 1950s.

My photo
I've got one foot in the grave and the other's in my mouth.

Poetry Disclaimer

My work has been awarded the Katherine C. Turner Prize from the Academy of American Poets, a Swarthout Award, and has twice been nominated and shortlisted for the Pushcart Prize. My first book, A Book Called Rats, was selected for the Blue Lynx Prize for Poetry (Eastern Washington University Press 2007). I'm curating editor for the online journal of poetry: PISTOLA and my poems and reviews most recently appear in Massachusetts Review, Beloit, Ploughshares and RAIN TAXI. I currently teach writing and literature at Santa Monica College in southern California.