Sunday, December 12, 2010

Absalom Boyfriend



Tyrone Bond
Absalom, Absalom
My Lover, Jim Bond’s Son
Martin Luther King Way
Stormy Weather
Calling Jesus
Absalom Boyfriend

The Light in August
The Leg


Tyrone Bond
—for William Faulkner

Tyrone Bond propped up in bed—
Reading Sanctuary for the first time,
Reading himself to sleep at night,
In the Ole Miss dormitory.

He lets the book slide off—
Sideways under the bed-lamp
His hand stroking his soft
Peach-fuzz thin moustache.

His armpits are getting damp—
Thinking about Temple going
Down on Popeye in the car,
Red fucking her hard in bed.

Virgil Snopes & cute Fonzo—
Shocked by all the chicks
In Miss Reba’s whorehouse,
The Memphis brothel blues.

His hand moving down—
His thumb pulling it back,
His Halloween pink candy
Big swollen naked head.

Absalom Absalom

—for William Faulkner

The sky, humid, disdaining thought—
The setting sun, too indolent to care,
A lengthening down the side of his pants,
Passively darkens for night's rendezvous.

A howling moon & men barking like hounds,
Orgy for a Deep South Dinge Queen like me,
My blood-hot eyes & cane-lipped pouty lips,
Surprised by soul-songs & seminal hips.

Jim Bond’s son shoots the back of my head off—
And silence breaks the pubic knolls and hills,
Soft-sounding whimper shooting his brains out
The oozing promise of a few last drops.

Smoke from a pyramidal pharaoh’s thighs—
Curls up, blue ghosts of Nubian kept men,
Where only my bruised lips & shocked hips
Remain proof of African princely power.

Meanwhile, Jim Bond’s virile young son—
Race memories of kings & slave caravans,
High-priests, sacrifices, and juju-men,
Leads me down the footpaths of the levee.

His deep voice the cypress trees know well—
Twisted roots & gnarly branches remember,
The sound of swishing machetes in the cane,
Where shirtless black youth work sweaty days.

Jim Bond’s naked son down by the levee—
South of campus down by the Mississippi,
Picking him up in my big black Cadillac,
Giving him my virgin cane-lipped attentions.

My Lover, Jim Bond’s Son
—for William Faulkner

Squirt O squirt that jizzy cum so strong—
O squirt it in the magnolia glow of night,
Nude in the velvet pine-smoke twilight,
Let me swallow it all the way down.

Let me taste the way a man tastes—
O Louisiana, bayou mud & cypress trees,
So skanky soft, so profligate & snaky,
Male lust before an epoch's sun declines.

Your black son, Jim Bond, has returned home—
Your mad son, I’ve become his black thighs,
It’s time for the midnight sun to set in him,
An Absalom boy & Sutpen slave no more.

Though Bon the Beautiful is no longer here—
His mulatto progeny runs thru my red blood,
I’ve caught Jim Bond’s plaintive laments,
Howling like a hound beneath the Delta moon.

A Negro slave, dark purple ripened veins—
Squeezed & squirting by the Mississippi levee,
Passing-out, against a stripped bare old tree,
A runny, bruised root he’s saved for me.

One squirt becomes everlasting desire—
Sighing, shadowy, bent, gnarled magnolia tree,
Gone now the long days & nights of slavery,
What he was, and what he’s now to me,
Strong, muscular loins of an African god.

Martin Luther King Way
—for Jean Toomer

A ticket burns my pocket, outta here—
Black dudes in silk shirts, African princes,
Jim Bond studs, zooming by in Cadillacs,
While whizzing, whizzing by them I go,
Speeding along the MLK fast-rail way.

MLK the highway along Martin Luther Way—
A fast-rail, black-skin wedge of Negro life,
It used to be slums, welfare housing dumps,
Now it’s black-blood thrusting up North,
All the way from SeaTac to U-District.

Speeding fast the black-skinned life—
Outta Holly Park & Rainier Vista ghettos,
Even tho many had fled down to Tacoma.
Flowing now along these smooth fast-rails,
Outta what once was run-down shanties.

Where even God wouldn’t have a cabaret—
Even if he were a jet-black Negro God,
Who’d duck his head in shame & fear.
Knowing what it was like that way before
Jim Bond’s son riding now beside me.

Stormy Weather
—for William Faulkner

Thunder blossoming gorgeously—
High above our heads like huge
Dark alligators yawning in the night,
Snarling, sharp-teeth, Spanish moss,
Getting him off nude in the pirogue.

Full-lipped pale-puce lavender orchids—
Bitten & bleeding by bugs in the moonlight,
Dripping, oozing, runny, bruised petals
Jim Bond’s son letting me lip the honey,
Lying on his back in the bottom of the boat.

His kinky pubes my new moustache—
A million bugs & mosquitoes want him too,
We skinny-dip in the bayou darkness,
He uses craw-daddy tails for catfish bait,
Shows me how to suck juice from heads.

Calling Jesus
—for Jean Toomer

His soul is like a little puppy-dog’s tail—
It follows him around wherever he goes.
But at night it turns into a big bad wolf,
And oh Jesus he fills me with the chills.

His breath can be sweet honeysuckle—
Soft as the loins of Christ up on the cross
With a cotton-boll, milk-pod loincloth
Wrapped around his thin shivering hips.

He’s got a low, scared voice in his heart—
Feeling me squeezing his dark nozzle tight,
His young tight hips on storm-door hinges,
Getting ready to jizz down by the Jordan.

His skin dark as a black midnight back-alley—
With his bare feet dangling like Jesus in bed,
Gone cotton-fields & cane of his ancestors,
The pink candy beneath his licorice foreskin.


the birth certificate

“Yes Yes Yes now,
and unlocked the
closet and brought
the parcel to the bed”
—William Faulkner
Go Down, Moses

the piece of paper—
the old frail page isn’t much
but it’s all she got.

it’s all she could get—
the kansas city court clerk
to cough up back then.

before the old judge—
sealed the file back up again
from the willows home.

name of her mother—
on the birth certificate
lived in chicago

first name emilene—
a cute young socialite
fell for a black guy

a saxophonist—
there in the windy city
he blew them away.

his name was tyrone—
built like a sleek brick shithouse
he was goodlooking.

he got her pregnant—
they sent her to the willows
to cover it up.

the willows home then—
wasn’t your run-of-the-mill
dumpy orphanage.

the big mansion—
built for young wealthy daughters
caught up in trouble.

out-of-wedlock girls—
met at the old train station
by a chauffeured car.

whisking them away—
to the willows orphanage
to have their babies.

it was all hushed-up—
illegitimacy was
bad enough back then.

but emilene’s love—
secretly tinged & tainted
her baby was black!

the willows orphanage

they lived & worked there—
as young nurses & helpers
for the other girls.

living there in that—
big tall mansion of shame
like fallen angels.

mother’s history—
began the day she was born
amy jane larkin.

adopted quickly—
picked up by a nice couple
childless & lonely.

growing up alone—
a county commissioner
for her own father.

a socialite—
bridge-playing gossipy dame
her mommy dearest.

not knowing about—
emilene her real mother
or her dinge father.

mixed blood inside her—
mulatto enough to pass
high octoroon girl.

genealogical shame

she grew up that way—
not knowing she was mulatto
then she got married.

her first-born okay—
looking like his young father
blonde, blue-eyed white boy.

but then her next son—
david dwayne jerome jones
a different story.

my young kid brother—
his mulatto blood ran thick
dark, black-haired, kinky.

emilene came back—
to haunt us with her lover
my brother was dinge.

it was so shameful—
his genealogical groin
had a dark secret.

all coiled-up down there—
a much bigger snake than mine
black shameless python.

everybody knew—
mother’s deep dark secret then
bad seed was her shame.

my father dumped her—
divorcing her right away
back in the fifties.

they took her back in—
amy’s shocked, ashamed
old retired parents.

growing up dinge

my cute dinge brother—
david dwayne jerome jones
had it really bad.

the more he grew up—
the more negro he became
my cute kid brother.

i was eighteen then—
he was just sixteen years old
when i first made him.

i opened the door—
he was there in the bathtub
beating himself off.

he had twelve inches—
the biggest black dick i’d seen
it was just awful.

locked the bathroom door—
got weak in my fucking knees
i couldn’t help it.

i was queer back then—
i had lots of faggy friends
and fag-hag girlfriends.

but that afternoon—
i fell desperately in love
with my kid brother.

i couldn’t believe—
i was such a dinge-queen then
and a size-queen too!

i was a senior—
he was a well-hung sophomore
what a huge dinge dick!

he couldn’t help it—
he was shooting his brains out
losing it so bad.

i went down on him—
wrapping my lips around him
strangling it to death.

after that blowjob—
there just was no turning back
my baby was black!

dinge kid brother

it was bad enough—
having a younger brother
he was such a snot.

sullen, spoiled, moody—
he made me get on my knees
and then beg for it.

it was just awful—
he knew i wanted it bad
made me pay for it.

twenty bucks a shot—
then he took off in the car
to fuck his girlfriend.

i got addicted—
to my kid brother’s big dick
i felt so ashamed.

the more shame i felt—
the more i wanted it bad
he drove me crazy.

the look on my face—
so distended & debauched
his face turned away.

didn’t wanna see—
the way a cocksucker looked
queer dinge queen brother.

i didn’t really care—
everybody in high school
knew our dark secret.

bad seed ran deeply—
down in the thick gnarly roots
of our family tree.

it was just awful—
i could smell my kid brother
outta my armpits.

young mulatto meat—
my genealogical
hare-lipped heritage.

i loved him too much—
i wanted to be his dick
and feel myself cum.

and that’s what happened—
each night i had a wetdream
his cum was so strong.

i couldn’t help it—
my nocturnal emissions
tres negritude-esque.

it was right outta—
some absalom, absalom
sutpen love affair.

delta dinge

“the loins of
african kings”
—william faulkner,
absalom, absalom

henry loved charles—
he wanted to be like him
wanted to “be” him.

he was bon’s lover—
they slept together down there
going to ole miss.

he was beautiful—
the loins of african kings
were bon’s gift to him.

bon was the true heir—
of sutpen’s hundred back then
henry the real slave.

out of bon’s loins came—
charles etienne de saint
valery bon and…

from his loins flowed—
jim bond the child idiot
henry’s young male nurse.

all three of the bon’s—
henry knew intimately
his lips knew their loins.

their tightly-flexed hips—
the loins of african kings
henry sutpen knew…

henry even knew—
jim bond the child idiot
up there in the dark.

the mansion attic—
where clytie had hidden him
away from the world.

jim bond was strong—
gave henry what he wanted
what he needed bad.

the jerk & long ooze—
of sutpen dynastic loins
outta africa.

just like i did then—
my mulatto half-brother
dwayne jerome jones.

dinge & déjà vu

“his own daughter!
his own daughter!
no no not even him!”
—william faulkner
go down, moses

dinge & déjà vu—
going down on young moses
jizzy love affair.

dinge & déjà vu—
going together just like
coffee & whip-cream.

dinge & déjà vu—
my mulatto kid brother’s
big black tuttle-loo.

dinge & déjà vu—
story of my dinge queen life
guilty attractions.

dinge & déjà vu—
like faulkner’s go down, moses
sound and the fury

dinge & déjà vu—
incest miscegenation
decadent deep south.

dinge & déjà vu—
henry sutpen deep in love
bon his dinge-brother.

dinge & déjà vu—
quentin compson at harvard
retelling the tale.

dinge & déjà vu—
absalom, absalom love
dinge melodrama.

dinge & déjà vu—
southern slavery bondage
the civil war.

dinge & déjà vu—
colonel sutpen’s young black studs
plantation-born & bred.

dinge & déjà vu—
bon the beautiful his son
born with a dinge dick.

dinge & déjà vu—
divorcing his carib young wife
too much dinge mixed-blood.

dinge & déjà vu—
henry sutpen such a fop
sent off to ole miss.

dinge & déjà vu—
henry falls in love with bon
his dinge half-brother.

dinge & déjà vu—
faulkner consumed with incest
all his dinge novels.

dinge & déjà vu—
bon’s blackness like joe christmas
in light in august.

dinge & déjà vu—
deep south human ownership
sex exploitation.

dinge & déjà vu—
horace benbow & little belle
in sanctuary.

dinge & déjà vu—
old carothers’ incest-love
with his slave daughter.

dinge & déjà vu—
did she go down on him
like go down, moses?

dinge & déjà vu—
philoprogenitive roots
getting off quintus?*

*Lucius Quntus Carothers McCaslin—the ledgers in Chapter 4 of Go Down, Moses “bring together the book’s themes of miscegenation, incest, and the search for a father. They contain the genealogical record of the black and white characters of the novel. In the mid-1930s Faulkner had extended the apocryphal history of the Faulkner family, set forth in Flags in the Dust and The Unvanquished, now for the first time he took as a resource for fiction the Old Colonel’s mulatto shadow family.”—James g. Watson, William Faulkner: Self-Presentation and Performance, Austin: University of Texas Press, 2000, 184-189.

william faulkner

dinge & déjà vu—
what distinguishes quentin
from me is my lust.

dinge & déjà vu—
I’m still alive not dead yet
henry’s back again.

dinge & déjà vu—
for me miscegenation
is my kid brother.

dinge & déjà vu—
fathers & daughters & kids
shadow families.

dinge & déjà vu—
henry & bon’s love isn’t
“pure, perfect incest.”

dinge & déjà vu—
same with me & my
young dinge half-brother.

dinge & déjà vu—
shameless white trash tragedy
it’s still going down.

dinge & déjà vu—
going down on young moses
it’s déjà vu time.

film noir boyhood

my film noir boyhood—
art deco bildungsroman

senate apartments—
streamline moderne style
with glass-block windows.

sweeping garish lines—
there in that small college town
where i grew up then.

vincent price landlord—
house on haunted hill my home
me, jerome, mother.

i still live there now—
inheriting the mansion
i’m the new landlord.

young college students—
rent out the other floors
all twelve apartments.

it’s called lambda house—
because i rent out to gays
and cute young freshmen.

it’s a moody house—
full of dinge déjà vu angst
family secrets.

my mommy dearest—
who had a negro father
there in chicago.

ditched by her husband—
me her first born gay young son
queer for my brother.

my mother’s mother—
there in the windy city
wealthy & bored chick

shacking up with this—
handsome saxophone player
in the nightclub scene.

bored with whiteyville—
growing up in the midwest
just a dead end street.


his name was tyrone—
tyrone jerome jefferson
he had his own band.

he played jazz all night—
fucking emilene silly
tell she got pregnant.

then kansas city—
when tyrone jerome dumped her
to have her kid there.

divorced & single—
still tingling from negritude
what else could she do?

she gave the kid up—
for adoption there at the
old willows mansion.

and so that’s how things—
came down for me & mother
and my kid brother.

my mother’s karma—
her pale octoroon white skin
inheriting it.

like susan kohner—
in that sirk soap-opera
with lana turner.

she could easily—
do “imitation of life”
and pass for a white.

and that’s what she did—
nobody expected it
especially her.

she was a red head—
so was my young dinge brother
he had bright orange pubes.

but he was born like—
charles bon the beautiful
with a black beauty.

my father ditched her—
like sutpen’s eulalia
when he found it out.

david dwayne jones

david dwayne jones—
born with a big black penis
it gave things away.

i was too young then—
but i wonder now these dayz
why wasn’t it me?

i wanted one too—
twelve inches of negritude
like he had down there.

big thick licorice—
a halloween candy head
and bad attitude.

he had it so bad—
david limped down the hallways
draggin it along.

the butch gym teacher—
was queer for him &
kept him after school.

guys in the showers—
joked he should keep all that meat
locked in the freezer.

and naturally—
phone calls late on the weekends
girlfriends calling up.

i was cursed with it—
penis-envy for david
my mulatto bro.

tasting him back then—
made it even worse for me
he had tyrone’s loins.

he got his manhood—
from chicago, illinois
nice big saxophone.

our brotherly love—
had deep roots all the way there
and all the way back.

after the divorce

divorced but wealthy—
our senate apartments home
her dead parents’ gift.

that’s where i grew up—
my mulatto kid brother
my mother & me.

i got used to it—
being a black sheep in town
mother’s dingy past.

but i didn’t care—
david jerome my brother
and he was just right.

it’s a long story—
a long mandingo romance
his long lanky legs.

david jerome jones—
so hopelessly hetero
which made it better.

he hated my guts—
nothing’s worse than your brother
going queer for you.

from high school on—
i got my kid brother off
david was divine.

ymca fags—
with their big ogling eyeballs
so jealous like me.

they couldn’t help it—
so full of penis-envy
they wanted it too.

it couldn’t be “had”—
i guarded it jealously
his precocious prick.

his teenage manhood—
thick as the mississippi
down to new orleans.

jet black ebony

jet black ebony—
man in polyester suit
worth a million.

it didn’t take long—
for the white chicks catch on
word got around fast.

david jerome hot—
with his albino pink pale skin
and mother’s red pubes.

tall, lanky, moody—
like his chicago father
must surely have been.

a kinky buzzcut—
basketball player physique
plus a sullen pout.

otherwise just your—
usual dirty white-boy
laid-back, bored like me.

except he was straight—
and full of young male hormones
needing lots of love.

and i was nelly—
limp-wristed & tres swishy
he’d yawn, say okay.

after school

every weekday—
i followed him home from school
like a fuckin’ dog.

locked the bedroom door—
and got him into bed fast
before he beat-off.

it was just awful—
sometimes i hurt real bad
worse than cain & young abel
limping afterwards—
down to the bathroom to pee
his bruised testicle

getting his nut off—
young african mandingo
pouty kid brother.

how many nephews—
innocent sons & daughters
i got outta him.

sometimes i woke up—
in the middle of the night
him having wetdreams.

what a fucking waste—
the same with masturbation
i had to be fast.

so many gone squirts—
so very little time left
somehow i knew it.

mommy dearest

mommy dearest died—
after a tragic car crash
brain-dead, then unplugged.

i got the senate—
mother had willed it to me
a large bank account.

life insurance paid—
for the funeral & bills
david & i grieved.

i consoled for weeks—
every grief-stricken long night
us two orphan boyz.

i graduated—
david dropped outta high school
i became landlord.

my major thing tho—
shamelessly selfish about
about us two guyz.

keeping his girlfriends—
away from the honey-pot
his nice afro-prick.

they wanted it all—
not really blaming them much
slamming the front door.

pulling ringing phones—
outta the dumb fucking wall
why share it all?

viet nam

but he ran away—
joining the navy back then
when he was 17.

yes, it took courage—
being midwest dinge queen then
back in the fifties.

jizzville wasn’t like—
cosmopolitan big time
kansas city then.

mommy dearest’s past—
her chicago jazz lover
negroid nonchalance.

lucky she was rich—
had the senate for her home
mother didn’t care.

she didn’t care that—
her oldest son was homo
a size queen oh dear.

and she loved david—
her handsome jazz-blues love-child
the joy of her life.

it took courage tho—
before civil rights began
martin luther king.

black pride & gay pride—
didn’t exist way back then
things change over time.

i missed him very much—
afro-american boyfriend
he done flown the coop.

don’t ask don’t tell

don’t ask don’t tell now—
these are my dinge confessions
i loved my dinge bro.

it was such a joke—
thinking nobody knew then
just like they do now.

the thing tho back then—
was to pretend to be straight
and full of self-hate.

but living that lie—
not speaking much about it
it wasn’t pretty.

even now writing—
confessions of a dinge queen
it’s still not the truth.

there’s lots more to it—
than meets the queer eye
or straight eye either.

haiku linked verse makes—
it sound kinda perverse
would basho be shocked?

me writing this way—
snapshots of mount fuji
may i count the ways?

tyrone jerome

mulatto kid brother—
dead in viet nam back then
sixteen years ago.

then his young son—
comes knocking at my front door
runaway nephew.

little did i know—
david fell in love, married
in san diego.

got his wife pregnant—
before shipping off to nam
a son left behind.

david’s son was stunning—
with his déjà vu goodlooks
disarming big smile.

he knew about me—
decent, indecent, so what?
it didn’t matter.

he needed a home—
his step-father was the shits
he needed a break.

so i took him in—
sleeping in david’s bedroom
even the same bed.

david’s son was named—
tyrone jerome jones after
his jazz grandfather.

dinge seed seems to run—
in my dark family tree
it’s roots & branches.

the chicago side—
tends to be the darker half
i’m just whiteyville.

dinge seed tastes nasty—
the nastier the better
dinge is déjà vu.

it makes me shudder—
it gives me heebie-jeebies
can’t jive the jizz-juice.

it’s so genital—
genealogical dreams
stretching back in time.

down from chicago—
down the thick mississippi
down to the slave blocks.

then deeper carib—
into the dark voodoo night
down into haiti.

that’s where I walked—
“i walked with a zombie” (1943)
jacques tourneau film noir.

across atlantic—
to deepest dark africa
young tyrone’s homeland.

hard to imagine—
how many generations
are flowing thru me.

dinge is déjà vu—
black narcissus kid brother
and now his young son.

dinge & déjà vu

robert mapplethorpe knew—
the same thing i knew so well
we were both dinge queens.

both robert & me—
truly size queens too, my dear
takes one to know one.

his startling portrait—
“man in polyester suit”
so shockingly louche.

milton moore posing—
in a polyester suit
all of it hangs out.

it’s simply grotesque—
obscenely tumescently
semi-erect rude!

imagine at work—
some busy elevator
secretaries shocked!

managers ogling—
innocent victims staring
panic buttons pushed!

in an interview—
mapplethorpe shows edmund white
some nude black photos.

milton moore’s penis—
lovingly pointing out how
sexy milton is.

veins & arteries—
forbidden anatomies
nice black-purplish sheen.

it causes quite a flap—
the new york galleries gawk
the stuff really sells.

books, exhibitions—
cardinals, senators shocked
the sky is falling.

it’s the culture war—
mapplethorpe’s big mandingo
there in the middle

taking lewd nude pics—
pillow-case over his head
incognito face

keeping him loaded—
getting him off all the time
bad boy mapplethorpe

how far can he go—
milton moore’s incredible
exquisite big tool?

reducing a man—
to simply huge genitals
that’s what critics said

critics gossiping—
how terrible for robert
doing such a thing!

milton & robert—
flying down to tennessee
visiting his folks.

it’s poverty row—
a dirty slum tenement
ill-conceived visit.

milton’s relatives—
a small black & white tv
cockroaches on screen.

milton’s young nephews—
catching robert’s jaundiced eyes
he wants their photos.

of course, milton knows—
exactly what robert wants
some hung dinge chicken.

are they well-endowed—
like milton moore all the way?
he hustles the boyz.

milton throws a fit—
lapses into gibberish
angry scrawling face!

mapplethorpe escapes—
flees back to new york fast
they almost lynched him!

what’s a guy to do—
being size & dinge queen too?
maybe it’s not cool?

dinge & déjà vu

is male incest best—
in my little nest of dinge

tyrone jerome jones—
built like young david jerome
my well-hung half-bro.

both my kid brother—
and his gorgeous young son
share it in common..

both built so nicely—
like lithe basketball players
long, lean & lanky.

it was straight outta—
the holy-roller bible
eve & the serpent.

i was eighteen then—
david jerome, tyrone too
both sixteen years old.

i got them both off—
the rod of aaron & the
seed of abraham.

tyrone so mature—
from the very first get-go
he was in the know.

like father like son—
going spaz in the bedroom
it was déjà vu.

kissing his big lips—
slowly strangling him to death
my kid brother back.

he died the same way—
fainting in my arms in bed
i felt so ashamed.

taking advantage—
of innocent homeless youth
but not very much.

the light in august
—for catherine gunther kodat


that huey p. long—
gone thirty’s nostalgia
returning again.

reading faulkner now—
unhistoricizing him
novel by novel.

light in august then—
mississippi delta dayz
always dying slow.


the light in august—
is it the same everywhere
like in the deep south?

the way sunsets slant—
down thru moody spanish moss
well-hung evenings?

languishing delta—
limpid sad magnolias
antebellum blues.

too humid it aches—
even to talk about it
the hurt of that time.

that’s the worst heartache—
the banana republic
of light in august.


the deep south is deep—
decadent decay & rot
dinge déjà vu rules.

the light in august—
reeks with confederate dead
gaunt, gothic, ghostly.

reconstruction came—
then the depression thirties
and now katrina.

surely it’s a curse—
the redneck riviera
poisoned by the gulf.

shrimp, oysters, sealife—
petro carpet-baggers rule
flem snopes back again.

african undead—
mississippi headwaters
slave block karma time.


but what do i know—
about frederick jameson’s
historicizing it?

a. e. van vogt’s push—
“the black destroyer” story
pulp fiction sci-fi?

(Archaeologies of the Future:
The Desire Called Utopia and
Other Science Fictions)

reading it back then—
astounding science fiction
magazine flashback?

like raymond chandler’s—
nostalgia for the future
in ruined LA.

the eerie feeling—
whether hollywood film
“farewell, my lovely”

or aging “kipple”—
PDK’s martian time slip
back from the future?

funny how it works—
late capitalism’s slide
into high castle.

when future doubles—
unhistoricizing itself

the leg


“it was a photograph,
a cheap thing such as
itinerant photographers
turn out at fairs.”
—william faulkner,
“the leg,” collected stories

he sat there quite still—
feeling the butt of his leg
ache in the morning.

it was still alive—
he could feel the phantom pain
beneath the blankets.

he looked at his face—
there in the carnie photo
vicious & mean.

written bold, sprawling—
outrageous & unappalled
like a boy’s scribble.

“to pat my lover”—
him standing there in the nude
with his leg straight-up.

that’s what he told him—
even as the ache & pain’s
flame faded away.


“i didn’t see him
again for a long time”
—william faulkner,
“the leg,” collected stories

everybody knows—
it takes two legs to tango
sometimes even three.

you jumped in the skiff—
and hurried away from me
sailing up-river.

you didn’t have to—
run away from me that way
why did you do it?

no, i won’t again—
you said, looking down at me
knowing i loved him.

and then pat asked me—
can you tell what it’s doing?
that’s just it, i can’t.

we spoke quietly—
that’s why you must find it now
and make sure it’s dead.


“then i had the dream”
—william faulkner,
“the leg,” collected stories

he couldn’t find it—
the sullen gap was still there
maybe it’s waiting?

i don’t know i said—
he was watching me with his
bright, intent blue eyes.

the delirium—
nerve & muscle-ends chaffed now
the gap was still there.

isolated by—
invisibility poised
on the brink of sleep.

then i had the dream—
the leg returned & told me
i’d found it at last.

“wait, pat,” i told him—
but he was gone once again
the gap back again.


“what is it, davy”
he said. “can’t you
say what it is?”
—william faulkner,
“the leg,” collected stories

suddenly i knew—
i was just about to come
upon it again.

i could feel it there—
deep in the darkness of dark
in the corridors.

the old fetid smell—
the rank, animal odor
the dread & disgust.

snake in the garden—
coiling, writhing & erect
serpent of the id.

the darkness flowed in—
the rushing light faded out
the thing breathed a sigh.

my erect nostrils—
quivering, sweating, knowing
foreskin sliding back.


“it’s nothing. i could
taste sweat on my lips.”
—william faulkner,
“the leg,” collected stories

i pulled the skiff up—
hiding by the riverbank
in the dark shadows.

i left pat behind—
i had a cute guy with me
we had a good time.

he saw me down there—
he watched me with his bright eyes
and there was a moon.

oh gawd! i said then—
pat! i won’t do it again
i won’t! not again.

then a match flared up—
his bodiless voice saying
all right now, davy?

yes, thanks i told him—
it was just a fucking dream
sorry i woke you.


“my teeth felt dry against
my lip like sandpaper”
—william faulkner,
“the leg,” collected stories

for the next few nights—
i didn’t dare dream again
coming back alive.

i learned not to see—
what i should’ve looked at
my thigh reconciled.

my evil dark leg—
its outcast’s evil comings
and goings somewhere.

i was lost in there—
somewhere in the mazy dark
where mother dream dwells.

tried to ignore him—
his sulfur reek around me
looking down at me


“and that was the
last of it. he never
came back again,
nor did i dream”
—william faulkner,
“the leg,” collected stories

i knew it was gone—
poor thing i said to myself
but it took pat with it.

perhaps in losing him—
an age lost its own straight lies
devil in disguise.

ramshackle old wreck—
the old house on haunted hill
vincent price nightmare.

the end of don’t ask—
i never saw him again
lost leg of don’t tell.

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