Wednesday, March 30, 2011


Marseillaise Chicken ______________________________

La Marseillaise, Detail from the Eastern Face
of the Arc De Triomphe, 1832-35, and the rather
lewd facade at the Baton Rouge Louisiana State Capitol
(1931-1934) by Francois Rude ________________________________________________________

Francois Rude’s (1784-1855) exquisitely homoerotic “La Marseillaise” sculpture on the Arc of Triumph dedicated to the French Revolution—also artfully gracing the front façade of Huey P. Long’s magnificent modern sweeping Art Deco /Streamlined Moderne skyscraper capitol looming over Baton Rouge and the Mississippi River. There I stood, amazed & awed by the naked revolutionary youth, flaunting his male beauty for all to behold. To behold & lust after as I did, there in front of that magnificent Depression Era steel & limestone phallic monstrosity typifying Huey P. Long’s egomaniacal size-queen Louisiana dreams—gunned down as a Senator deep in his own capitol’s magnificent bowels, sullen bullet holes still lurking in the sad walls, his body buried in the garden grounds, an infamous tricking place for shocking midnight gay rendezvous nightlife, how fitting & proper for a Louisiana blowjob temple, sucking off a trick, as I gazed up at the highlighted monument to the Kingfish’s glorious dreams & dashed Camelot aspirations. I was there groveling in the darkness, worshipping what I worshipped only so well, an olive-skinned Creole youth I’d picked up in the bus station that tragic night in November 1963—when all I could think about was failed revolutions, grandiose Camelot dreams done in by too much blind ambition & great expectations, something I didn’t suffer from down there on my humble knees, the kid manhandling my humble attempts at polite oral intercourse, treating my mouth like some gauche Popeye or rude Alabama Red fucking whore Temple Drake silly, way up there in Memphis in skanky Miss Rebus’ dingy old whorehouse, no doubt about it, I suffered no disillusionment or fatal romantic denouement, preferring instead to gag & swallow the runny awful-tasting juice from the suddenly severed crawdaddy’s engorged head, milking with my pouty lips the rough-trade Creole kid’s huge veiny cock— down to the last whimpering jizzy jerk, knowing all too well the excruciating tragedy of so many Creole-Camelot cumly French revolutions…later gazing up at Francois Rude’s rude French chicken up on the capitol’s classy façade entrance, glowing in the moonlight, as I reached up & touched it, with my still quivering spermy tongue, the idol of the Arc of Triumph, the cold stony statue’s secret endowment, the tragic treasure & the reason for my decadent downfall ever since…

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

MY BABY IS BLACK!!! (1961)

MY BABY IS BLACK!!! (1961)


"The hypothetical element

of such writing hesitant

at the edge of a powerful

orality, and yet composing

with it (we are far from

the spoken language)”

—Edouard Glissant,

Faulkner, Mississippi

The big black snake torpid & twisty—thick & black like a water moccasin down south all he needed was—some fangs & a pair of eyes to be a penis snake. it wasn’t that big—only ten brooding inches voodoo carib long it had a pink head—it needed a nice girlfriend not just a queer hand conduit of shame—pulling back uncut foreskin tiny black wrinkles untouchable meat—except for immediate mandingo love appreciation “hallelujah, lord!”—the black preacher cried each time that the snake got off the big black thick snake—it had a life all its own a creole night thing my zombie boyfriend—darby jones at the crossroads deep in the dark cane drums in the background—standing nude under the moon black african god voodoo love child it was unearthly—the way the snake slithered down the side of his leg a normal teenage—innocent adolescent mandingo moment then suddenly dark—moody sullen ancient male snake god the next it made my knees weak—in the middle of the night sleeping with the kid he had these wetdreams—i mopped up his slick stomach tonguing congo cum fags wanted him bad—he began catching their eye bulging just like mine there in the tea room— the one with the glory hole upstairs allen hall he was always scared—afraid when he stuck it thru glory hole’s orifice some whitey crazy—would give him a good blowjob and then cut it off he didn’t want to—see their faggoty faces how they wanted it becoming the snake it wasn’t easy—it was hard most of the time he couldn’t help it he grew up real fast—young male hormones flowing thru him like a river he couldn’t help it— it had a life all its won he became zombie he became possessed—his young african penis taking him over okay with me tho—i liked walking with zombies and sucking them off he needed it bad—smoking weed all the time just made it a lot worse he limped with each tray—his white waiter’s uniform he couldn’t help it self-consciously—looking away from me there cafeteria his mother the cook—cooking infirmary food her son the waiter after the first time—moved into my apartment there in tiger town my baby is black! i began thinking—that maybe i was in love bad seed flowed thru him sacred and profane—it was so strong i fainted it tasted awful his asshole, armpits—his cheesy negro foreskin his negritude cum it was just awful—i just couldn’t get enough i felt so ashamed i tried to stop it—but that old black magic kept coming back again. down in new orleans—at this dirty movie house watched this porno flick “my baby is black!!!”—about a paris white chick who fell for this black it was a skanky story—she ended up pregnant with this black guy’s kid. the delivery—the doctor smokes cigarettes the nurses are shocked aghast at the kid—what drive-in theater schmaltz “my baby is black!!!” she gives birth to this—pretty little black baby what did she expect? and the audience?—back during integration trembling with disgust? at first just sleazy— french quarter movie houses now on internet each time i got him—i swallowed his black baby down to the last drop fifty years later on the internet— watching it 50 years later so very campy at the time back then—going to lsu living there in tiger town the zeitgeist was tense— it was forbidden romance my baby was black my mulatto prince—my young handsome dinge boyfriend getting all i could i was queer for him—how many black baby wads i sucked outta him? my young black lover—built like a dinge apollo a black osiris the mississippi— my sluggish egyptian nile river lover back in the sixties—we’d get loaded like hippies then i got him off who knows how many—squirmy runny black babies i sucked outta him pheromones flowing—his armpits stinky & damp legs around my neck spraining his neck he sprained his neck lots—banging against the headboard going spaz real bad it hurt really nice—like a charley horse only much worse than just that it hurt so bad that—he fainted while still cuming his brown eyes closed tight nothing like a spaz—losing himself all the way becoming just dick that’s when oral sex—becomes perfect dick worship all the fucking way he became mandingo—a dick with a pair of legs an inch-long dick-slit his tight flexing hips—fecundating full of sperm i drained the kid dry the earth’s axis tilts—sucking off a young zombie a casual god

Monday, March 28, 2011



“Black men create

this love thing: a

fated argosy


by words”

—Alden Reimonenq,

“Black Male Cocoons,”

Milking Black Bull

Cant’ Go Back nobody told me— no whitey fag turning back once i fell in love it wasn’t simple— once I went black there was no turning back, man i already knew— or at least felt it that way back in the ‘60’s i fell in love with— curvy muscularity his black bulginess jet-black, slippery— gluing my quentin queer lips to bon’s young maleness Tiger Town Apartment Plenty of egg yolk— After the draft board found out Vaseline blackness There was no excuse— Not to get loaded each day And get him off nice Dumpy apartment— There in back of a bookstore A student ghetto I shrugged off “whitey" Lots of Acapulco gold Into dinge chicken My tongue hanging out— Tiger town long dayz & nights I almost flunked out Campus Dinge Romance what a nice young piece— erection, penis envy uncut impulses every day shameless— black licorice & pink head sliding back foreskin halloween tricking— tricking & treating negro my cute dinge boyfriend he worked as waiter— his mother the cook at the school infirmary i went to classes— still tasting his negritude there in allen hall Gay Mardi Gras once i caught on to— how a mardi gras drag queen crisscrosses the quad how to recognize— my french quarter gay sisters how to betty davis how to torture blanch— upstairs in her wheelchair with rat under glass view carré bitchy— showing off my dinge lover sipping mint juleps pickled pig-feet lips— tainted bougainvillea twisty veiny arms Allen Hall those lovely ‘30s murals— gracing the busy hallways so tres nostalgic time stood still back then— a huey p. long banana republic deep south denouement thirty years later— bullet holes still in the walls the state capitol ancient carib—cotton, sugar cane empire run by the slave trade and there i was now—me naked on the slave block my turn to be slave Miss Faulkner Knows the pecan trees leaned— the magnolia trees moaned the old oaks ached bad all my books mildewed— as i lied dying back then somnambulant lit he tasted bitter— he tasted both sweet & sour he was so moody… he be charles bon— seancing him back in time delta dinge romance yoknapatawpha— pascagoula gulf breezes mississippi muse Self Fellatio my young black lover— 18-year-old hedonist giving himself head my dinge narcissus— in love with himself so vain i made him share it no more wasting it— no more masturbating it no more perversion i wanted it bad— flexing his young black beauty fine mandingo meat he didn’t want to— that made it even better the way he struggled Hoodoo VooDoo Boyfriend long before i read— ishmael reed’s poetry his mumbo jumbo like i had the hots— just looking at his handsome young writer’s photo he be tall, lanky— like “i walked with a zombie” (1943) jacques tourneau’s black stud standing nude, erect— out there in the cane field night there at the crossroad anaconda dick— he made me get down suck it drums in the background James Baldwin a lot of black men— ended up there in paris dinge diaspora queeny james baldwin— butchy chester himes as well richard wright there too paris kinky heads— weren’t bowed in suppression like back in the states new thoughts burnt to words— cotton comes to harlem and gay paris as well dinge writer exiles— why go back to police state? only whitey hell… Mississippi Muse i could feel it deep— down by the levee at night along river road a southern calmness— old black magic taking root down past the cane fields that’s where i parked it— the baby-blue cadillac my mother gave me it was a gas-hog— a garish ’59 monstrosity clunky with sleek fins with these big chrome tits— like jayne mansfield’s limousine her fatal death car Going Down On Moses i knew already— i’d read my mother’s ledger her chicago lover my brother’s father— mulatto alto sax player her nightclub lover her dumb first husband— my deadbeat no-good father divorced her & split incest nothing new— miscegenational cum his name was tyrone so i was ready— for my new dinge loverboy all black ten inches Beauchamp Baccalaureate no black studies then— mid-60s integration on campus back when the viet nam war— rotc mandatory pimping fascismo creative writing— no mfa program yet ginsberg forbidden along with whitman— no room in the straight canon beatnik decadence the delta journal— i fell for the cute black guy editor in chief Snopes Literature william faulkner tho— the yoknapatawpha guide into underground like cocteau’s orphee— heurtebise sleek rolls royce thru liquid mirror down to see miss dis— black leather motorcycle escort down to hell i was a snopes kid— hare-lipped white trash pinhead a tod browning freak up there in memphis— miss reba’s whore house my home alabama red!!! Pulp Fiction Poetry it didn’t take long— storytelling a “fixup”* sanctuary schmaltz faulkner needed bucks— rowan oaks be expensive short stories for sale pastiche & parody— quilting queer notes together later as novels then to dark oaks— son of dracula (1943) lon chaney’s swan song queen zimba the witch— evelyn ankers my fag hag louise allbritton…


*fixup—“a term used by A. E. Van Vogt to describe a book made up of previously published stories fitted together—usually with the addition of newly written or published material—so that they read as a novel” —John Clute & Peter Nichols The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction

Friday, March 25, 2011

The Politics of Reading Faulkner

The Politics of Reading Faulkner

Reading Faulkner

“an attenuated form of
sibling incest in which
taboos or race, region,
and class are defied”
—Karl Zender, “The Politics
of Incest,” Faulkner and
the politics of Reading

like the gym story—
the way the deep south entered
my imagination

triggering my id—
with domestic anecdotes
there in my closet

faulkner’s novels came—
creeping into me thru the
politics of reading

an old gay barber—
at the air base by the pool
the officer’s club

sensing i was gay—
my father stationed down there
in louisiana

shreveport way up north—
in redneck territory
unlike new orleans

cutting my hair and—
telling this story of
a baton rouge gay

they murdered this fag—
throwing him off the big bridge
into the mississippi

naturally I freaked—
gay murder stories weren’t my
cup of tea back then

then in baton rouge—
there on campus next story
the gay queer gym coach one

the one about the—
guy going down on the young
young janitor kid

that’s how southern lit—
with its storytelling ways
told me gay folk tales…

after that it was—
miss faulkner’s turn reading me
like me reading her

we’d have séances—
like quentin & shreve there in
the cold harvard dorms

then absalom, absalom
entering the past

faulkner retelling—
quentin’s story just for me
bon & henry’s too

knowing that I was—
tres gay like quentin compson
hots for dalton ames

knowing that I was—
into miscegenal love
like buck & billy

knowing that I had—
a mulatto kid brother
like charles bon

a writer’s oeuvre—
a lifelong writing project
of storytelling

writers change with time—
faulkner’s despair grew deeper
he mourned the deep south

attack or praise it—
“I don’t hate the South”
love it or hate it…

the tragedy of—
male psychic power &

the déclassé jim bond—
judith sutpen as victim
roth’s young black lover

the white male psyche—
the whole male-dominated
social order still…

Writing Faulkner

“the chinks and cracks
of masculinity, the fissures
of male identity and
the repression of phallic
—Terresa De Laurentis,
“Feminism and Faulkner,”
Faulkner Journal 4 1999

he could write again—
he began listening to
benjy, quentin, caddy

they spoke to him late—
in the rowan oaks darkness
sipping his whiskey

a delta autumn—
calmness helped him write again
rereading himself

i’ve been there as well—
reading my family ledgers
like ike in the dark

they told a story—
like young roth edmund’s story
about his lover

she came to the camp—
tennie jim’s granddaughter
there with all the men

isaac with his own—
troubled miscegenal past
his own dinge ledgers

the old blood story—
the l.q.c. mccaslin curse
running thru them all

the incest motif—
imagined by miss shelley
“laon and cythna”

“siblinghood” bleeding—
into dinge brotherhood, sex
there in tiger town

Living Faulkner

“Old man,” she said,
“have you lived so long
and forgotten so much
that you don’t remember
anything you ever knew
or even heard about love?”
—William Faulkner,
Go Down, Moses

i was like isaac—
i was like jacob wrestling
with young dark angels

getting into bon—
sexual racial taboos
delta male bonding

zender mentions how—
absalom written during
popular front heydays

the freudian left—
pushing against fascism
spanish civil war

faulkner donating—
absalom manuscript for
auction to raise dough

against the nazis—
for the spanish loyalists
(see blotner’s bio)

me in tigertown—
during the Vietnam war
living with two blacks

the gay hippie left—
my answer to postwar angst
war economy

fascism back then—
iraq, libya, afghan now
the same old story

the same old story—
nothing really has changed much—
tragic male psyche

storytelling it—
thru all his gothic novels
delta noir despair

faulkner writing it—
male imperialism
does it ever end?

Saturday, March 19, 2011


blackness full of jive—
inarticulate whiteness
words just can't describe.

whiteness full of shit—
closet dinge queens on the prowl
naked negritude

i knew it back then—
ancient deep south taboo
rumored in gym class

there at lsu—
before integration back
then in the sixties.

out of the blue—
cruising a naked guy in
in the gym class showers.

the kid looked at me—
he said there was this coach
who was a dinge queen.

got caught in the gym—
sucking off a janitor
a cute young black guy.

why would he tell me—
something like that just to put
down my being queer?

equating faggot—
with negritude in the gym
a coach nonetheless?

it didn’t work tho—
we went ahead & had sex
he let me do him.

it was an old gym—
had been around for years since
huey p. long dayz.

a gone camelot—
thirties sad nostalgia
like with kennedy.

and then when he came—
the kid called me the n-word
i was simply shocked.

a guilty pleasure—
made me shoot my wad as well
i became negro.

i felt primitive—
like some voodoo hoodoo queer
overcome by dinge.

later the campus—
got integrated back then
in the mid-sixties.

i fell for this kid—
a student editor of the
delta lit journal.

hazard wildman was—
the faculty adviser
there in allen hall.

a gay professor—
from mobile who liked my
gay poetry then.

i was no ginsberg—
howl had been published way then

in san francisco (1957)

and 10 years later—
imitating his free verse style
delta published me.

then gay sunshine press—
put out “chicken” & “size queen”
i be fag poet

but always back there—
in my darkest closet mind
i knew who i was…

the story about—
the coach & the janitor
always haunted me….

i knew in my heart—
neil cassidy just wasn’t
enough man for me.

jack kerouac too—
these white guyz that ginsberg loved
they just weren’t for me.

what gave it away—
was living all those years in
the dormitories.

the janitors were—
naturally were all negro men
a job for young blacks.

i fell for this guy—
in the south stadium dorm
he was beautiful.

each & every morning—
he unlock my door & would
empty wastebaskets.

soon i skipped classes—
laid in bed waiting for him
nude naturally.

it didn’t take long—
to get him in bed with me
young black orpheus.

he lock the door and—
take off all his fuckin’ clothes
i went down on him.

i craved his dinge wads—
they were runny & nasty
and i rimmed him too.

all i wanted was—
to become him when he came
the cute mandingo

i was the gay coach—
the one in the gym who loved
the black janitor.

i be a dinge queen—
i picked him up after work
i needed him bad.

we’d drive down to the—
levee and make out at night
mississippi cum.

i couldn’t help it—
there weren’t any black studies
programs on campus.

deep south in turmoil—
desegregation raged all
over dixie land.

the viet nam war—
would get you if you flunked out
dead in the jungle.

it was a struggle—
keeping my grade point up there
doing the down-low…

they tried to draft me—
i told them i was homo
“so what?” they just shrugged.

i told them i was—
going to bed with a young
“nigger” janitor…

the psychiatrist—
had a nervous breakdown then
got rid of me fast.

yes, i checked the “box”—
and all hell broke loose for me
the box said “dinge queen.”

and so that was that—
i was the scourge of the earth
a social outcast.

but i gave a shit—
i took jerome on a trip
down to mardi gras.

i wined & dined him—
thanked him, kissed his nice black ass
for saving my life.

from then on it was—
like we were married man & wife
he was my whole life.

i moved off-campus—
got an apartment for us
there in tiger town.

we smoked lots of dope—
my poetry got better
hoodoo voodoo love…

africa blessed me—
he taught me gumbo cookin’
his mother liked me.

things slowed down for me—
he had a younger brother
he moved in with us.

i kept it secret—
nobody needed to know
how happy we were.

it took a long time—
i was in no hurry to
graduate dontchaknow?

it took 100 years—
and gawd knows how many pints
delta dinge love jizz!!!

Friday, March 18, 2011



Romancing Tyrone

“At the dark street corner
where Guilt and Desire
are attempting to stare
each other down”
—James Baldwin,
“Guilt, Desire and Love,”
Jimmy’s Blues

I repent it all—
As if it does any good.
Just another lie.

Just one of many—
I’ve told, retold & believed
Lies I told Tyrone.

The big lie that he—
Would never ever believe
Even tho I tried…

That I had never—
Slept with another Negro
Young man just like him.

And it was so true—
Cross my legs & hope to die
Just dirty white boyz…

Dirty White Boyz

He just smirked at me—
After all I was really
The dirty white boy.

I was desperate—
For Tyrone’s nice you-know-what.
I be a dinge queen.

He just said “Shut up”—
“Don’t gimme that white trash shit,
Get down faggot lips.”

And they all knew it—
Tyrone had dropped outta school
They guyz stared at it.

The white girlz stared too—
The phone would ring at midnight
I got so jealous.

Bulldog Boy

Every time I lied—
Or tried to run away from
Myself in highschool.

I found myself like—
Always brought up short by the
Young bulldog in bed.

Not in the backyard—
Tyrone didn’t bark that much
All he did was snarl.

What do you expect—
From a younger kid brother
Other than just that?

Sibling rivalry—
He was just sixteen-years-old
And I was eighteen…


Tyrone wasn’t nice—
A moody adolescent
He was dark & quick.

But he could be slow—
When he wanted to slow-fuck
Or when I rimmed him.

My gay friends thought that—
It was a horrifying
Thing I was doing.

Taking advantage—
Of his virgin innocence
And big black penis.

I was tainting him—
Forbidden incestuous
Wads of babypaste.

Gay Genealogist

I couldn’t help it—
My gynecological lips,
Our family tree.

I got to know it—
The Root of Good & Evil
Each vein, artery.

Got my lips on it—
Somebody had to do it
Sucking Tyrone off.

Tyrone limped a lot—
His penis got even more
Black & blue & sprained.

I held it for him—
Standing behind him as he
Peed in the commode.

Anatomy of Love

Tyrone’s black penis—
Wasn’t like mine, more like a
Young thoroughbred horse.

He had this dick-slit—
It was at least an inch long
He’d pee in two streams.

One in the toilet—
The other down on the floor
So animal like…

I could feel his hips—
Quiver like a Kentucky
Racehorse in the gate.

I knew how to make—
A guy cum real nice & hard
With my jockey lips.

Tyrone in Love

Tyrone be in love—
With himself, of course, not me
He was proud of it.

“What’s the matter, kid?”—
“I think I gotta get off…
C’mon, do me quick…

That’s how it happened—
In the middle of the night
We slept together.

Sometimes he’d get these—
Wetdreams all of a sudden
Outta the dinge blue…

I had to be quick—
I didn’t want Tyrone to waste
One single male squirt!!!

Nocturnal Emissions

After I got them—
His helpless dream-like

He’d just shake his head—
“It must’ve been those fuckin’
bed-bugs that bit me?”

“I don’t bite,” I said—
I like to gum you to death.
Gotta be quick tho…

His teenage hormones—
Were coursing thru his bloodstream
He couldn’t help it.

And his damp armpits—
Stinky with male pheromones
Quivering nostrils.


Tyrone looked at me—
His mouth hanging half-open
I was the expert.

Gawd knows he wasted—
So much doing sixty-nine

He abused himself—
Walnut Elementary
Up to the tenth grade.

Cumly sophomore—
Before I caught him after
School beating off fast.

I barely had time—
To get my queer lips on him
Such exquisite slime!!!

Addicted to It

What can I say?—
That I haven’t said before
I discovered God!!!

Gawd knows how many—
Times I got young Tyrone off
It was just sinful…

He grabbed my head tight—
His dark eyes getting bigger
No laughing matter.

Deadly serious—
We weren’t playin’ any games
I felt him up lots.

Like when he lost it—
Nothing like a cute spastic
Turning inside-out.

Doomed Dinge

So vulnerable—
Like a trembling little bird
With a broken wing.

A basket of eggs—
Squeezed too hard between us both
Oozing down his leg.

Sticky yellow yolk—
Runny clear young male mucous
In the thirsty heat…

A dreadful stirring—
Some Mandingo Hoodoo cum
I tasted manhood.

I felt it stretching—
Down my throat into my
Own cumming cock.


When the morning came—
It was a lifetime later
I could still taste him.

I wanted to touch—
Him just like last night
But something stopped me.

Mother was standing—
There in the bedroom doorway
On her way to work.

Tyrone had been her—
From a previous marriage
Her second lover.

My no-good father—
Had divorced her way back then:
She’d been adopted.

Her dinge Ledger there—
On the kitchen table with
Her black heritage.

Mommy Dearest

Later she told me—
Smoking a cigarette and
Sipping a cocktail.

Her mother was black—
Her real father a lawyer
She’d been his young maid.

He was wealthy so—
He had the kid adopted
A high-yellow girl.

Mother a red-head—
She could easily pass as
Cute Rita Hayworth.

So when her husband—
Ditched her, she went back
To Chicago her home.

The Sax Player

She accepted it—
Her Afro-American
Proud black heritage.

She wanted some guy—
A young Mandingo to fuck
Her silly & forget…

Windy City had—
Plenty of black swanky nightclubs
Waiting to get her.

She fell for a guy—
Tyrone’s future father who
Played the saxophone.

She got into jazz—
He got inside her panties
She needed it bad.

Tyrone the Love Child

Mother came back home—
She inherited money
Her rich step-parents.

A small college town—
She bought an apartment house
Called The Dinge Towers.

It was Art Deco—
After the Streamline Modern
Architecture style.

That’s where we grew up—
Mother dearest, handsome Tyrone
And yours truly, my dears.

Mother was quite gay—
She & her lesbian lover
The talk of the town.

Dinge Ennui

Gay bildungsroman—
Simply wearied me silly
Who cared who I was?

Being unconscious—
Retreating from the brutal
Bourgeois white trash crowd.

Oh & by the way—
My mother’s lezbo lover
Was a black woman.

She was such great fun—
She be Butterfly McQueen
“Atlanta’s burning!!!”

Didn’t know nothin’—
About birthing young babies
Or two boyz like us…

Dinge Confessions

I never felt it—
Feeling betrayed or left out
No angst bothered me.

I couldn’t help it—
Tyrone was all I wanted
Mother be happy.

Tyrone wanted to—
Find himself but then of course
That’s natural, right?

He be Native Son—
While I be Giovanni
I be a Killer.

All I wanted was—
To strangle his dick to death
Becoming Tyrone…

Addicted to Dinge

I was one of those—
Fags who lived his own Novel
Without writing it.

Each day a chapter—
Each night another dinge-love
Juicy denouement.

Like Mapplethorpe said—
Once you’ve gone dinge all the way
There’s no turning back.

I wasn’t strong-willed—
Ambiguity was my
Password thru zeitgeist.

One day at a time—
It was just self-deception
To expect much more.

Kitschy Bijou

Hardly a master—
Other than monstrous drag
And kitschy Bijou…

I believed rather in—
Getting stoned, masturbating
Tasting Tyrone’s cum.

Even that Eden—
Wouldn’t last forever, dears
Always the Serpent.

Drunken & sordid—
I thought of different ways
To keep Tyrone mine.

One fairy tale was—
To have him undergo a
Nice Lobotomy.

The Writer

I suppose it was—
Then I realized Tyrone
Be getting real bored.

A true dilemma—
But after all brotherly
Incestuous love…

Surely it was doomed—
Buck & Billy McCaslin
In “Go Down, Moses.”

Miss Faulkner knew it—
One didn’t have to be a
Lit Crit genius…

To know when boredom—
Hit the proverbial fan
The Seven Year Itch…

The Seven Year Itch

That was about right—
Those seven years had gone by
So very quickly.

Sooner or later—
Tyrone would get married ‘cause
He was a straight kid.

Tyrone simply be—
So hopelessly hetero
That it made me ache.

He started dating—
He got some cute chick pregnant
She hated my guts.

Rather than having—
Her moving in, I asked him
To go live with her.

Withdrawal Symptoms

I couldn’t help it—
I had the heebie-jeebies
Semen addiction…

I pushed the Panic—
Button and stayed drunk all week
Mother got worried.

Got me on a plane—
Flew me down to Aruba
To soak up some sun.

The Latino boyz—
Were so accommodating
Used to bored tourists.

And so I switched—
From Johnny Walker over
To Tequila dayz.

Tropical Paradise

But then I wearied—
Joyless seas of alcohol
Nights of Iguana…

It was like hitting—
An air pocket on a flight
The jolt woke me up.

I’d been in a state—
Of constant motion sickness
Falling down somewhere?

It made me panic—
I can’t describe the feeling
An elevator shaft?

And so bleary-eyed—
I flew back to Dingeville
Older but wiser.

The Dinge Towers

After Mother died—
Butterfly McQueen retired
And faded away.

I spent long weekends—
Walking the Pascagoula beaches
Pondering my fate.

The fading sunsets—
That’s when the lonely summers
Brought me to this place…

Down in the basement—
The dimming art deco glass
Block windows glowing.

I realized that—
A lifetime was very short
Bounded by darkness…

The Delta Night

It ended where it—
Began in the morning light
Now night was coming.

It scared me at first—
It made me afraid being
Smaller than I was.

Crushed by gay desire—
Squeezed and distilled by passion
Like a dinge memoir…

The sweat on my neck—
Grew cold & I got the chills
Tyrone had queered me.

His blood & manhood—
Was running thru my bloodstream
I’d become Tyrone…

The Dinge Writer

I realized then—
Even tho I didn’t quite
Understand it all…

What happened to me—
Was only a pulp fiction
Version of Boyhood.

I had never planned—
To write about my dinge love
With young dark Tyrone.

I had always been—
The Invisible Man who
Was a writer now…

That’s when the doorbell—
Rang & there was Tyrone’s son:
My “Sweet-16” Nephew!!!

Thursday, March 17, 2011



“the desire which
was rising in me
seemed monstrous…”
—James Baldwin,
Giovanni’s Room


Suddenly I felt—
The power of his smooth thighs
His long strong legs.

It made me afraid—
That body of my brother’s
Its black mystery.

I was falling down—
A dark elevator shaft
Into his manhood.

I knew it would drive
Me mad & torture me with
Promise & desire.

His loose nutsac grew—
Tighter as I sucked him off
Tyrone’s eyes closed tight.

Dinge Queen

It was a dual hell—
Being in love with Tyrone
My brother & lover.

I could feel myself—
Mirrored in body sameness
Both of us young males.

A strange encounter—
One of us black & the other whitey
A dirty white boy.

Each homo love scene—
Brought me closer to being
Dinge queen for Tyrone.

My black kid brother—
Twice as endowed as I was
And two years younger.

Coming Back Home

Funny how I felt—
Like I’d always been running
Away from myself.

That something had been—
Misplaced, somehow forgotten
Maybe on purpose…

But now I felt like—
Some intimation of self
Was coming my way.

It was the same self—
I’d been running away from
And yet here he was.

He was right here now—
Here under this roof of ours
Tyrone here at home!!!

Doing the Down-Low

So, I embraced it—
My new imaginative
Physical Double.

I became Tyrone—
Black & gay identity
All wrapped into one.

Tyrone became me—
Each jizzy mulatto wad
Made me more Negro.

I felt myself change—
My pale white albino skin
Started turning dinge.

Each time I blew him—
And swallowed his tart dickwad
I started turning…

Getting Tyrone Off

My penis turned black—
Tyrone’s cum had queered me bad
It turned licorice!!!

I was simply shocked—
Tyrone said I deserved it
Cocksucking that way.

It was just awful!!!—
Awfully nice because it
Started growing too.

Tyrone was endowed—
He had at least 12 inches
I only had six…

But then sucking it—
Doing the down-low on him:
Dinge doppleganger!!!

Tyrone’s Testosterone

It grew to seven—
And then even eight inches!!!
It felt real good too.

Being a size queen—
Soon I could do what he did:

I became tainted—
By the queer act of blow-jobs
His cum & my own.

The more I got soiled—
Turning my dick chocolate
The better I felt.

I became Tyrone’s—
Black penis, new symbol of
Queer homo Whiteness…

Ditching Whiteness

I escaped from it—
I divested myself from
My own Whiteness.

I flew from Whiteness—
And I embraced my Blackness
With each Negro wad.

It explored me and—
Conquered me, a long journey
Into dinge darkness.

Tyrone’s skin was beige—
He had red pubes like mother
He was high yellow.

But his young penis—
Was as dark as the Ace of Spades
Just like his father.

New Notions of Blackness

A visitation—
Fearful longings & desires
I felt different.

Tyrone didn’t care—
He didn’t try to force me
Into a closet.

Not like the Whites did—
All the bullies & teachers
Wanting to “guilt” me.

Tyrone engendered—
New notions of Blackness and
Dingehood love, romance.

Black-gay subjectivities
Bringing it back home.

Inverting the Flight

Some feel misgivings—
It be pain for them.

Who wants to be that—
Gay protagonist always
Running away scared?

Don’t ask, don’t tell them—
Who you really are but keep
Keep it in closet.

Until you become—
Somebody you really aren’t
And don’t like that much.

Instead of changing—
Transforming yourself into
Somebody you love?

Tyrone’s Room

Didn’t wanna run—
Not like I used to wanna
Run away from it.

Got into black lit—
African & Pagan Gay
Black Literature.

Sexual sameness—
And textual differences
Between me & straights

Reading living texts—
Brother to brother writings
Baldwin, Essex Hemphill

Read Gertrude Stein—
On Patriarchal Old Pricks
Supremacist dicks.

Orphée & Heurtebise

Tyrone was my guide—
My Orphée & Heurtebise
Down to Darkness.

He was my brother—
And he was my lover too
Got me there & back.

After awhile then—
It wasn’t really about

It was about what—
Happens to you when you’re in
Love with somebody.

Which is, well, kinda—
Much more interesting than
Just being homo.

Sunday, March 13, 2011



Isaac McCaslin

“it was only by chance
that McCaslin, twenty
years later, heard of
him again, an old man
now and quite fat, as
the well-to-do proprietor
of a select New Orleans
—William Faulkner,
Go Down, Moses

Isaac McCaslin—
Poor Isaac has come & gone
Was I too rude, harsh?

What could I say tho?—
The Ledgers told the story
All these years later.

I had forgotten—
All those Mississippi days
Delta Bourbon nights.

Poor Ike McCaslin—
I can imagine what he’s
Gone thru all these years.

His Uncle Buddy—
Took pity on me back then
Took me under wing.

Taught me how to read—
How to write the white man way
That’s how I found out.

That’s when I read them—
Buddy showed me the Ledgers
My whole history.

Percival Brownlee

“Percavil Brownly
26yr Old. Cleark @
Bookepper. Bought
from N.B. Forest
at Cold Water
3 March 1856
$265. dolars”
—William Faulkner,
Go Down, Moses

Bedford Forrest sold—
Me to Mr. Theophilus
Back before the war.

He bought me there on—
No. 87 Adams Street in 1856
Memphis, Tennessee.

I came all the way—
From North Carolina with
Twenty-five young Negroes.

Buck was in Memphis—
Gambling, touring whore houses
And I caught his eye.

Bedford Forest smiled—
He had me take my pants off
And show Buck my junk.

He made me nervous—
The way he checked out my teeth
Felt all my muscles.

It made me get hard—
Cause Buck was one of those kind
He be a dinge queen.

He paid $250 for me—
And Mississippi became
My Plantation home.

The Ledgers

“even the tragic and
miscast Percival Brownlee
who couldn’t keep books
and couldn’t farm either…”
—William Faulkner,
Go Down, Moses

This is back then when—
Bedford Forrest was a rich
Memphis Slave-dealer.

Not yet General—
Not yet KKK Wizard
Dead at fifty-six.

The Civil Was had—
Yet to begin the nightmare
Doing Dixie in.

Things could have been worse—
I could have ended up bought
By Senator King.

His Alabama—
Plantation notorious
For kept Mandingos.

Later queer Vice-Prez—
William Rufus DeVane King
President Buchanan.

He died in Cuba—
The ultimate dead Dinge Queen
Jackson sneered, chortled.

The McCaslin Plantation

“the ledgers, new ones now
and filled rapidly, succeeding
one another rapidly and
containing more names than
old Carothers or even his
father and Uncle Buddy had
ever dreamed of…”
—William Faulkner,
Go Down, Moses

Yes, Buck McCaslin—
Be bad enough to live with
What a dinge sex fiend.

He wouldn’t let me—
Outta the fuckin’ bedroom
Each night drained me dry.

I cursed the day—
My African fathers made
Made me Mandingo.

How could I help it—
He milked my dark twelve inches
Until black & blue…

Buddy felt sorry—
But what could he do back then?
Buck had ditched Buddy.

I wanted freedom—
I’d pick cotton or plow the
Fuckin’ goddamn fields.

So Buddy taught me—
How to read & write so I
Could try to be free…

Impromptu Revival Days

“conducting impromptu
revival meetings among
negroes, preaching and
leading the singing also
in my high sweet true
soprano voice…”
—William Faulkner,
Go Down, Moses

I was the only—
Slave on the plantation who
Hadn’t been freed yet.

Buck just smirked at me—
I was gonna be his own
Sex-slave forever.

Buck McCaslin shrugged—
He’d served in Tennant’s Brigade
N. Virginia Army.

Buddy played Poker to—
Solve most of Buck’s problems
Buck was a dummy.

I’d found my true niche—
And I disappeared on foot
At top speed back then.

Not behind them but—
Ahead of a body of
Raiding Yankee horse.

Reconstruction meant—
I could finally run away
It was Freedom Land.

Jefferson Square

“and reappeared for
the third and last time
in the entourage of a
traveling Army paymaster,
the two of them passing
through Jefferson…”
—William Faulkner,
Go Down, Moses

We were passing thru—
Me & this gay paymaster
Who liked me real good.

A fancy surrey—
Me all dressed up in a suit
Pretty as can be.

It be big mistake—
At the exact moment when
Ike’s father be there.

Crossing the town square—
Buck & young Ike McCaslin
What a shock that was!!!

Buck took one look at—
Me there in that surrey with
The young Yankee boy.

He reached for his gun—
Buck be furious with me
I had betrayed him.

I jumped the surrey—
Got my black ass runnin’ fast
Runnin’ for my life!!!

The Carothers Curse

“his great-grandchildren,
seeking yet some place
to establish them to
endure even though
forever alien & unblessed
a pariah about the face
of the Western earth…”
—William Faulkner,
Go Down, Moses

And so here I am—
Me sitting here in my own
Memphis rich whore-house.

In the Big Easy—
Here in the lewd French Quarter
Pretty View Carré…

Buck long dead & gone—
His son Ike McCaslin who
Tracked me way down here.

Only to find out—
From my own concubine lips
The Ledgers were true.

Years after the War—
After Lee’s surrender and
The Proclamation.

Sitting here looking—
Thru the wrought-iron balcony
Over the rooftops.

Somehow I survived—
Despite the vice & bondage
The White Man taught me.


Ganymede pouring wine from an
Oinochoe for Zeus on Olympus.
Detail Attic Red-figure kylix by
Oltos & Euxitheos c. 520 Tarquinia


“Faulkner’s postpublication
statements about TSATF
swaddle the book in
maidenheads”—Richard Godden,
“Quentin Compson: Tyrrhenian
Vase of Crucible of Race?,” New
Essays on TSATF

Well, hardly my dear—
More like young Tyrrhenian
Ganymede foreskins.

Seminal hints of—
Faulknerian Arcadias
Lost Dixie Deltas.

Yawning Hades abysses
Swallowing us up.

All the grand mansions—
Greek Revival white columns
Whitewashed by the slaves.

“Et ego in Arcadia—
I too have lived in
Arcadia”—Bart Schidone

So adolescent—
The whole Deep South aesthetic
Give me a break, please.

Quick! Call Miss Scarlet!!!—
Atlanta is burning, dears!!!
I gots Foreboding!!!

What’s gonna happen—
Jeff Davis so full of lies
Dixie youth, bye bye!!!

It’s Gone with the Wind—
The only thing true in that
Saccharine Novel!!!

“Once a bitch
always a bitch”
—William Faulkner,
The Sound and the Fury

Leda my sister—
Caddy there in the bushes
Whimpering for it.

Moaning for Dalton—
The beautiful young male swan
Champion of dames.

The son of a bitch—
Fucking her there in the reeds
It was just shameless.

I couldn’t help it—
I felt the same surge of blood
Like Caddy’s pussy.

“the beast with two backs”
—William Faulkner,
The Sound and the Fury

Dalton’s thin cruel hips—
The look on Caddy’s pretty
Young face turned animal.

The oar blades shining—
Time rushing by so quickly
The beast with 2 backs.

He fucked her silly—
I saw it all in the woods
Dalton’s sleek muscles.

Pluto & Caddy—
Svelte swine of Euboeleus
Her legs in the air…

“Did you love him
Caddy did you love
him when he
touched you I died”
—William Faulkner,
The Sound and the Fury

She looked at the sky—
All smelly honeysuckle
The sounds she uttered…

My weak knees went slack—
I began to jerk and jump
Blood pounding in me…

I could see her die—
Breathing as hard as I was
Dalton was ruthless…

And then when she wrapped—
Her legs around his thick neck
That’s when I fainted…

“the water sucked and
gurgled across the sand
pit and on in the dark
among the willows”
—William Faulkner,
The Sound and the Fury

It just made me sick—
I swore I’d kill him next time
He ever touched her.

But that was a lie—
My heart was thudding so bad
I wanted it too!

My hammering heart—
I felt Dalton inside me
It was jealousy.

I wanted it too—
He must have had lots of girls
Dalton took his time.

“the water rippled
like a piece of cloth
holding still a little
light as water does”
—William Faulkner,
The Sound and the Fury

Caddy’s muddy drawers—
Really dirty and filthy
Torn and thrown away.

My little sister!—
Her pussy profuse with pubes
I saw it down there.

Hiding in the bush—
With all the crickets & frogs
Suddenly afraid.

Matted in the vines—
The briers dark like his pubes
His pale white penis.

“Caddy don’t Caddy
it won’t do any good
don’t you know it
won’t let me go”
—William Faulkner,
The Sound and the Fury

He fucked her again—
The honeysuckled drizzled
And drizzled some more.

The wind in the trees—
In the woods back of the house
Dalton the devil.

Pulling Caddy down—
Along with everything else
All the squealing pigs.

Euboeleus too—
Herding his swine sucked down too
His quivering snout…

“running the swine
of Euboeleus running
coupled within how
many Caddy”
—William Faulkner,
The Sound and the Fury

Terrible, father—
I didn’t want to do it
I couldn’t help myself.

Dalton got me down—
There on my faggoty knees
Made me suck him off.

Caddy’s pussy lips—
Dalton’s distended face mine
He called me her name.

Pushed my head against—
The stone bridge pulling my hair
Tight & I saw stars.

“Caddy you hate him
don’t you she moved my
hand up against her throat
her heard was hammering”
—William Faulkner,
The Sound and the Fury

And then I knew it—
All the honeysuckle smells
And taste of young men.

Dalton pulled it out—
Wiping himself off neatly
With a handkerchief.

Looking down at me—
“Too bad you’re not a woman”
Smirking Dalton said.

That’s when I knew it—
Like Uncle Buck & Billy
I be Dixie Queen.

“he rolled the cigarette
quickly with about two
motions he struck the
match with his thumb”
—William Faulkner,
The Sound and the Fury

“Well, we can’t talk here”—
“Suppose I meet you somewhere
Tomorrow, Quentin?”

“I’ll come to your place”—
“You, me and Caddy can get
Down dontchaknow.”

I could still taste him—
I was still weak in the knees
He held me steady.

“Yes, Dalton, I wanna”—
His khaki shirt made him look
Like a young bronze god.

“the smoke flowed
in two jets from his
nostrils across his
face how old are you?”
—William Faulkner,
The Sound and the Fury

“I’ll give it to you”—
Dalton said, smiling at me
“Like I do Caddy.”

My hands were shaking—
My mouth said it I didn’t
“Give it to me now.”

He inhaled slowly—
Sizing me up & down then
Pinched my pink nipple.

“You’re like Caddy, kid”—
“Just can’t get enough of a
Good thing, huh Quentin?”

“he raked the cigarette ash
carefully off against the rail
he did it slowly and carefully
like sharpening a pencil”
—William Faulkner,
The Sound and the Fury

It wasn’t my fault—
I was a bitch like Caddy
I whispered his name.

And then I said it again
“Dalton oh Dalton…”

Shreve was wiping it—
Himself off with a wet rag
His sperm was oozing.

The sun was slanting—
Down thru the dormitory
Afternoon window.

“It kept on running
for a long time, but my
face felt cold and sort
of dead, smarting again”
—William Faulkner,
The Sound and the Fury

“You need a piece of”—
“Beefsteak for that eye” he said,
“You got a shiner.”

“That’s okay,” I said—
“I got your beefsteak big dick
To give me comfort.”

Shreve just smirked at me—
“You want it now or later?”
He got in bed with me.

He didn’t smell sweet—
Honeysuckle’s sad odor
Wisteria waist.

“The draft in the door
smelled of water, a damp
steady breath a perverse
mocking supine trembling”
—William Faulkner,
The Sound and the Fury

I smelled Shreve’s armpits—
I squeezed his tight hips behind
Harvard’s black trickles.

I tricked with the stud—
Going down on Dalton and
Moses and Memphis.

Shreve was my Popeye—
My Alabama Red stud
My face seated five.

Curves of the river—
Beyond Mississippi dusk
My lips were tideflats.

“Calling him my husband”
—William Faulkner,
The Sound and the Fury

Dreamed about Dalton—
A snotty runny wet-dream
It just wouldn’t quit.

Shreve holding me tight—
Thinking I was dying then
But I wasn’t dead.

And yet I was dead—
Zimbabwe Zombie Zulu
Delta deep in me.

I dreamed I was back—
In bed with Bon Beautiful
In the Ole Miss dorm.

Mississippi Girlfriend

“making me sick
I couldn’t stand the
smell if I’d just had
a mother so I could
say Mother Mother…”
—William Faulkner,
The Sound and the Fury

After our three-way—
Caddy told me a story
A fairy tale one.

“If I were King then—
I’d never be a Queen or
Giant or Fairy.”

She showed me the book—
A single weak ray of light
Slanting down on us.

Our two gaunt faces—
Lifting out of the shadows
After Dalton left.

“I’ll drag him naked—
And whip his bare ass real good
With a buggy whip!!!”

“Why not you instead?”
She whispered to here down there
In the dungeon.

“Once a bitch always a bitch”
—William Faulkner,
The Sound and the Fury

Caddy’s face got dark—
Made me spread-eagle myself
Then she went to town.

I buried my head—
In the pillow and bit my
Tongue bloody & bruised.

Secret unsecret—
Decadent urges whispered
“Bad seed!” in my flesh.

The more I got off—
The harder Caddy whipped me.
My ass hamburger.

“petty chicanery
in very disgust
first fury of despair
or remorse or
—William Faulkner,
The Sound and the Fury

Benjy and Jason—
Gawking thru the bedroom keyhole
So this be incest?

There aint no time—
To feel guilty or ashamed
“Harder!” I tell her.

Whatever gods may—
Happen to be floating at
The time no one knows.

And nobody cares—
It’s not despair until time
It’s not even time.

Saturday, March 12, 2011


Quentin as Closet-Case

“Shreve might not be
in Quentin’s pants, but
he’s surely in his head,
a far more terrifying
place for him to be.”
—Noel Polk, “How Shreve
Gets in to Quentin’s Pants,”
Faulkner and Welty and
The Southern Literary Talent

Poor Quentin

Dalton Ames knows it—
And so does Shreve McCannon
They know Quentin’s queer.

They know him better—
More than Quentin knows himself
Mississippi queen.

All of Harvard knows—
Quentin be a closet case
Yes, Quentin be gay.

Quentin falls in love—
With young butch Shreve Mccannon
Same with Dalton Ames.

Jealous of Caddy—
He goes down on Dalton Ames
On the bridge back then.

He’s seen them make love—
Caddy toes pointing straight up
Dalton’s toes straight down.

Even Benjy knows—
Quentin be a real slut now
Just like Caddy is…

On the Bridge

Quentin closet case—
Tries so hard not to be queer
But he can’t help it.

Dalton is all male—
Quentin and Caddy want him
They have the same lips.

Ames lets him have it—
Calls him “Caddy” when he cums
Quentin swoons away.

The Modernist way—
Long streams of consciousness
Dream-like, disjointed.

Alluding to sex—
Homoerotic love play
All in italics…

He isn’t thinking—
Quentin as a source of sex
It was Caddy’s lips.

He looks thru Quentin—
Like thru a piece of stained glass
Why meddle with names?

June Second 1910

“I was I am not”—
Mississippi or Harvard
I’m dead bones down here.

I jump off the bridge—
It’s not the Tallahatchie
It’s Charles River.

Where the boyz are nude—
Skinny-dipping having fun
They invite Quentin.

So easy to be—
“Blind immortal boy” again
In person this time.

I fucked it up tho—
Confused by little sister
My secret urges.

Beating of hot blood—
Young handsome well-hung Dalton
Going all the way.

Making me swallow it—
Dalton’s untethered huge hog
Down Hades abyss.

The River

I could smell the curves—
the river beyond the dusk
last light supine down.

The tranquil tideflats—
Beyond lights the clear pale sky
Dalton’s trembling dick.

Refuge in his pubes—
Conflict temporarily
Silenced by cuming.

Sudden sharp tart taste—
Salty as tears his snotty
Brothel between his legs.

Deep I Memphis trance—
Naked in Miss Reba’s place
Dalton subdues me.

Cuming into my—
Oh Jesus Christ he’s so hot!!!
No wonder I’m queer!!!

The aching rain—
Between silences inside me
Dalton flowing deep.

Shreve at Harvard

I can still taste him—
Invisible blood flowing
My cute young Greek vase.

Past my hot lean lips—
Staining my swan-throat with his
Young thick Moses Rod.

The long warm fingers—
Leaving me breathing hard there
The whispering dorm.

I need Shreve bad—
Like I needed Dalton Ames
Love those Harvard squirts.

Shuddering so hard—
Shreve thinks I’m gonna die
I’ve tried many times.

Somewhere I heard it—
Mississippi drumming down
In my beating heart.


Like Jason I keep—
Retuning to the scene of
Incestuous crime.

Going down on Ames—
Dalton’s girlfriends know the truth
Legs around his neck.

The Rod of Aaron—
The seed of young Abraham
Jacob’s cute angel.

My long monologue—
Hovers like moths before flames
And then retreating.

It’s colloquial—
Roots in spoken dialects
Oral intercourse.

When I lose control—
Sex, syntax, all of language
Goes out the window.

Faulkner keeps it up—
Typing away late at night
Rowan Oaks whiskey…

Trying Not to Say

“Faulkner though achieves
the effect f cinematic
significant episodes…
intimately intertwined”
—Noel Polk,
Children of the Dark House

Benjy tries to say—
But cant while his brothers try
Not to say what’s there.

Jason keeps talking—
He can’t help himself talking
He over-controls…

Quentin is desperate—
He shapes his syntax, grammar
Toward closetry.

Both Dalton Ames and—
Shreve McCannon his husband
Penultimate pricks.

Imagined conversations
Talking with father.

Episodes control—
Ironic self-reflexive
Gay witty wordplay.

Mélange of denial—
Negatives, mordant syntax
Saddest boy of all…


Every closet-case—
Has a Spoade lurking in there
Only too ready…

Squealing the secret—
Shreve be Quentin’s young husband
He loves to bottom.

It’s a train of thought—
Going back to Jefferson
Queer Quentin the fag.

His conversations—
Discomforted by closet

Shreve shrugs it all off—
So what if he’s not fucking
Cute sluts like we do?

Spoade a terrapin—
In a street full of Harvard
Dead desperate leaves.

Quentin unravels—
Séances with Dalton Ames
Dangerous bridges.

Benjy’s bleak golf course—
Full of lost golf balls eve
Benjy’s testicles.

Quentin desperate—
Not wanting to put in words

Henry Sutpen

Seancing the past—
Channeling the Sutpen voice
Letting it speak now.

Quentin & Henry—
Easily becoming what
Déjà vu can do.

Coached & abetted—
By shreve’s constant questioning
Dialog begins…

Sutpen’s design seems—
To overwhelm narrative
Queering Bon as dinge.

But Henry goes down—
In the Old Miss dorm at night
Surely knows Bon’s dinge?

Why not let Judith—
Get to know Mandingo love
And breed more young Bon’s?

Quentin like Henry—
Young Deep South closet case
Sees into the Past.


Quentin hates Harvard—
His Deep South dinge queenery
Doesn’t come off good.

Back to Jefferson—
Jason scowling in the wings
Benjy castrated.

Caddy got married—
Her husband queer for Quentin
His Compson goodlooks.

What was there to go—
Back to in Mississippi?

His father’s death and—
Mother’s crying all the time
Jason ditching it all.

Harvard taught you how—
To jump off a bridge into
A river’s cool death.

No wonder Quentin—
Simply jumped off the bridge
He hated the South…

Friday, March 11, 2011



Tyrone’s Dirty Shorts

“His own daughter!!!
His own daughter!!!
No No Not even him!!!”
—William Faulkner,
Go Down, Moses

I was simply shocked—
They were still damp with cum-stains
Tyrone’s dirty shorts.

I found them hidden—
In Tyrone’s bedroom under
His bed there upstairs.

Several wads of cum—
His shorts were simply filthy
They stunk just awful.

Not just with old wads—
But they reeked with smegma too
I inhaled it all…

I couldn’t believe—
My innocent kid brother
Was so seminal.

Was this like Caddy—
Benjy & Quentin weak-kneed
Over the same thing?

Was this what Faulkner—
Was getting at way back then
Dirty shorts eros?

Sound and the Fury

Always intriguing—
That scene in Faulkner’s novel
Caddy in the tree.

Her dirty shorts up—
There in the tree as she peered
Into the bedroom.

Mystery of death—
The dead body on the bed
Caddy’s young pussy.

It always seemed like—
Much too heterosexual
Who cared about that?

And yet here I was—
Trembling with a pair of shorts
Getting off on them.

All of a sudden—
I got weak in the knees and
Almost fainted then.

Tyrone was so young—
Like Caddy up in the tree
Dirty spermy drawers.

Gender Fuck

They stunk so bad that—
I couldn’t get enough of
Tyrone inside me.

A junior high kid—
Shooting his brains out that way
Jesus it was hot.

That’s how he found me—
Beating off in his bed bad
With his bad-boy shorts.

Burying my face—
Stuffing my mouth & nostrils
His Mandingo cum.

I’d been so stupid—
Tyrone’s young adolescent
Hormones had kicked in.

I should have known it—
The soft Peachfuzz sprouting there
On his upper lip.

The way he’d begun—
Pouting & acting moody
When I looked at him.

The Smirk

I felt the same way—
The incestuous way that
Quentin must have felt.

Tyrone closed the door—
And locked it without saying
Anything at all.

He took his clothes off—
And stood there in front of the
Mirror nude erect.

My gawd, he was hung—
How could a chicken be so
Fuckin’ well-endowed?

First it was 10 inches—
Then Tyrone stroked it some more
Jesus, twelve inches!!!

He pealed back the head—
Pink like Halloween candy
Black licorice shaft.

I couldn’t believe—
How much smegma he possessed
I licked it all up!!!

Dark Meat

I was queer Quentin—
No doubt about it, my dear
I knew it for sure.

My own Roman vase—
How I rimmed him & got him
Off there in his bed.

No more dirty shorts—
With me waiting after school
My dirty queer lips.

Like what can I say?—
Faulkner has already said it all
I’m a Quentin clone.

Tyrone be Caddy—
But also he’s Benjy too
When he goes spastic.

My child-idiot—
I loved it when he lost it
He’d become all-dick.

Gimpy spaz chicken—
All penis & pheromones
Oh, those damp armpits!!!

The Prick and the Fury

That’s my gender-fuck—
Story within a story
Incestuous love.

His black meat made it that way
I be a dinge queen.

He was albino—
His skin pale yellow & smooth
Our mother’s love child.

After her divorce—
She shacked up in Chicago
Jazz alt-sax player.

A swanky nightclub—
She lived with him for a year
Tyrone their OFFSPRING.

That’s how Tyrone came—
All the way, baby!!!

Each time different—
But each time down & dirty
No wonder I’m QUEER!!!

Guilty Attractions

I was just like Ike—
And his two homo uncles
I had it real bad.

Like Henry Sutpen—
Queer for his half-brother Bon
Bon the Beautiful.

I had the same thing—
Horace Benbow’s guilty love
For Little Belle.

Guilty attractions—
They work that way dontchaknow
Just like Pulp Fiction.

Sanctuary love—
Dirty paperback romance
It sold pretty good.

Faulkner’s shadow life—
The Old Colonel’s mulatto
Shadow family.

Not much difference—
Between apocryphal facts
And Family fiction…

Dinge Queen Guilt

Did I feel guilty?—
Making love to young Tyrone?
Did I exploit him?

Miscegenal cum—
Philoprogenitive jizz
I got all I could.

If Faulkner did it—
Reconstitute history
So could fuckin’ me.

The more guilty and—
Ashamed I felt the better
I aint no poor Ike.

I got my own past—
I’ve gone over the Ledgers
And they aren’t pretty.

Like Buck & Billy—
Percival Brownlee was my
Dinge hung kid brother.

I got him off good—
Cum runs thru my veins.



The Lavender Letter

“worthless tideless
rock cooling in the
last crimson evening”
—William Faulkner,
Go Down, Moses

Hawthorne had his own—
Last crimson evening back
Then without a doubt.

The Scarlet Letter—
Classic nineteenth-century
Closetry fiction.

The same Ledgers there—
Hidden in the Custom House
Faulkner’s worthless key.

His own threatened self—
The same tricks & plots for his
Progenitive text.

The manuscript record of
Adultery back then.

Expanding it to—
Modernist dimensions of
Worthless crimson tides.

The Salem witch trials—
Mr. Surveyor Pue tells
The tale of Hester Prynne.

Lavender Lips

Just look at my lips—
See how puce & bruised they are
My black & blue lips?

A sheer give-away—
Tyrone makes them look that way
Twisted & purple.

They pout all the time—
The witches don’t burn fags now
They just sneer at them.

They know I like it—
They all know I’m a dinge queen
Queer for my brother.

Do you think I care?—
Hardly my dear, knowing what
I knew only so well.

The more I got him—
The more I wanted him bad
Africa was mine.

Just an illusion—
That Old Black Magic had me
Zimbabwe Zombies!!!

Zimbabwe Zombie

“Did you love them Caddy
did you love them?”
—William Faulkner
The Sound and the Fury

I had these wetdreams—
It sounds so embarrassing
But his cum caused them.

And it wasn’t just—
Melville size-queen fantasies
They came to me soon…

I’d go to sleep then—
Tasting Tyrone’s young manhood
Crawling like a slug.

Leaving long runny—
Slug-tracks all the way down my
Starved cocksucker throat.

That’s when they’d come out—
Nocturnal emission ghosts
Bon’s black brotherhood.

It’s like they were just—
Waiting for me to do him
To get Tyrone off.

Squirmy nightcrawlers—
They came out at night after
I got Tyrone off.

The Future Ledgers

“Chinese and African
and Jew, all breed and
spawn together until
no man has time to
say which on e which
nor cares”
—William Faulkner,
Go Down, Moses

That’s how they all came—
Like from some future ledger
Written out in sperm.

Afro-American jizz—
Not just words & images
All McCaslin-esque.

More like the real thing—
Tyrone was like Percival
And I was like Buck.

Oral intercourse—
Joe Christmas & the others
Tallahatchie bones.

Mississippi Delta—
Old Man River born again
Down my greedy throat.

Guilty attractions—
Me up on the slave block now
I be Tyrone’s slave.

“Gawd, his own brother!”—
But I just couldn’t help it
It’s a long story…

Judith Sutpen

“the nigger that’s
going to sleep with
your sister”
—William Faulkner,
Absalom, Absalom

It was like marriage—
Like “pure & perfect incest”
Offing the Colonel.

Henry in the tent—
Choosing Bon the Beautiful
Over his father.

Shot by the Yankees—
That sad night after Shiloh
Both of them riding.

Riding back home to—
Marry Judith & live then
A ménage-a-trois.

Choosing both incest—
And miscegenation to
Be Delta Bourbons.

Their own Dynasty—
Bon, Judith, Henry Sutpen
Mississippi Dinge.

And from their fair loins—
A new Sutpen Family

Thursday, March 10, 2011

The Percival Brownlee Ledgers


“The whole Brownlee
episode appears set
aside in a parenthesis,
as though merely a
subsidiary clause”
—Noel Polk & Richard Godden,
“Reading the ledgers,” The
Mississippi Quarterly 07-01-2002

Like Lit Crit Taboo—
Most Faulkner critics had done
What Isaac did too…

They left it alone—
The whole Brownlee episode
The McCaslin Curse.

Too hot to handle—
But still crucial to our
Go Down, Moses thoughts.

Single ledger page—
Full of scandalous details
Isaac’s shock of shocks.

Poor Isaac simply stunned—
An extended admission
Incestuous love!!!

Buck & Billy were—
Lovers, his own father and
His Uncle Billy!!!

Right there on the page—
Percival Brownlee kept boy
Buck’s new sweetheart slave!!!

Isaac horrified—
Miscegeny with a slave!!!
His father a queer!!!

His own dear father—
Committing the same dinge sins
Like his grandfather!!!

Can Isaac condemn—
L.Q.C. McCaslin for
For being Evil One?

Of course, Isaac does—
What most Faulkner critics do:
They ignore the news…

Isaac repressed it—
Disturbing development
Family chronicle.

Already it’s bad—
Enough without out awful
Faint revelation.

Why make matters worse—
It runs in the family?
Desire for black cock?

“Brownlee is homosexual
and that his homosexuality
is the single reason why
Isaac's father bought him,
the only slave he, Buck, or
his brother had ever bought”
—Noel Polk & Richard Godden,
"Reading the ledgers,” The
Mississippi Quarterly 07-01-2002

Isaac condemns his—
Grandfather for being such
An awful pervert.

Now it turns out that—
Buck his own father was queer
For a black kid too?

All of a sudden—
Exogamous intruder
Enters the picture.

Then in the ledgers—
Extended lover’s quarrel
Upsetting it all.

The Brownlee entries—
Suggest Buck & Uncle Buddy
Lovers living together.

Living together—
As man and surrogate wife.
What would Father say!!!

As Isaac moves toward—
His grandfather's perfidy
The ledgers open up.

With two paragraphs—
Buck & Buddy not morally
Superior to their father.

The twins have qualms—
About slavery that their
Father didn’t share.

They seem to have done—
What they could at that time
And in that place.

To ameliorate the evil—
Practices of the institution
(More than Isaac does).

But an ugly fly’s—
In the lily-white ointment
Moiling dinge passion.

No divine plan saves—
The cursed McCaslin Family
It’s always tainted!!!

“But the narrative of this
emancipatory impulse
veers towards alternative
and darker implications.”
—Noel Polk & Richard Godden,
"Reading the ledgers,” The
Mississippi Quarterly 07-01-2002

Isaac casts Brownlee—
The whole episode away
Too hot to handle.

This part of his own—
Tainted family history
Starts fumbling bad.

Falling down the stairs—
The whole Emancipation
Story in ruins.

It’s impossible—
To eradicate Slavery
Like Original Sin.

The ledgers point to—
Darker implications and
Impulsive dinge lust.

Buck has the hots for—
The young Percival Brownlee
Was he beautiful?

Was he what Buck wanted—
His marriage to Billy long gone
And dead of any love…

The brothers write it—
All down in the ledgers like
It was just business.

Unavoidable business—
Diurnally advancing pages
Percival the kept boy?

“Read by Isaac as part
of an ongoing conversation
between the two, the entries
suggest that the twins are
"long since past any oral
intercourse" (p. 194).
Faulkner's locution, speaking
quasi-directly to Isaac's
thoughts, puns subversively,
to admit the tongues of lovers
into the speech of brothers.”
—Noel Polk & Richard Godden,
"Reading the ledgers,” The
Mississippi Quarterly 07-01-2002

From "oral intercourse"—
The paragraph moves directly
To the queer “anomaly.”

The "anomaly calling itself—
Percival Brownlee" (p. 195),
an anomaly in several senses.

But most immediately—
In his being the only slave either
of the twins had ever bought.

The ledger entries—
Which follow parenthetically,
Indirectly explain it.

Why Isaac's father—
Bought Brownlee & the
Consequences of the act.

The slave transaction—
Recording the transaction
Talking about it.

“Buddy's reaction to
Buck's purchase of
Percival Brownlee
is a response first
to his twin's
homosexuality and
second to his
purchase of a slave
to satisfy his lusts”
—Noel Polk & Richard Godden,
"Reading the ledgers,” The
Mississippi Quarterly 07-01-2002

It’s less important—
To prove Buck & Buddy were
Homosexual lovers.

But more important—
To know that Isaac believes
They’re both queer brothers.

Homo miscegenators—
Glomming onto a black kid
Making him their slave.

It’s even worse than—
His grandfather’s presumptive
Straight miscegenation…

Queer miscegenation—
And brotherly incest too!!!
Isaac shit his pants.

“And that these beliefs,
conscious or unconscious,
are what drives his renunciation
of the land and of his family
tradition, not his grandfather's
presumptive heterosexual
miscegenation and incest”
—Noel Polk & Richard Godden,
"Reading the ledgers,” The
Mississippi Quarterly 07-01-2002

"Was" and part 4 of—
"The Bear" reveals Buddy's life
As cook & housekeeper.

Even as nagging wife—
Decent poker player and
Such a nice gay" couple"!!!

So Buck got bored—
Big fuckin’ deal it happens
The 7-year itch.

Who can blame Buck then—
His old Civil War buddy
N. B. Forest helped him.

Viola! Young black slave!!!—
A cute Mandingo dreamboat
Can’t plow or pick cotton.

But good in bed tho—
Oral Intercourse Perfecto!!!
“You like ‘em well-hung?”

So Buck bought him fast—
Handsome Percival Brownlee
All 12-inches of him!!!

Isaac almost had—
A hard-attack reading in
The ledger about it.

Suppressing it quickly—
“Jesus christ what if I’m
Fuckin’ queer too?”

“Does dinge turn me on?”—
Isaac closed the ledgers
Deep South funky blues…

even perhaps far
from readable”
—Noel Polk & Richard Godden,
"Reading the ledgers,” The
Mississippi Quarterly 07-01-2002

What are we readers—
To make of such a subtext
Faulkner be so sly.

No wonder his father—
Called him “Snake-Eyes” after his
Mother’s side of the family.

Faulkner was subtle—
Where did he learn that trick?
Big Easy boyfriends?

Queer undercurrents—
Flow deeply in his Modernist
Mississippi River.

Yoknapatawpha be—
More than just Tallahatchie
Deep in Faulkner’s mind.

He could flow with it—
Like he did with TSATF
Free of publishers.

First Benjy came—
The child idiot voice in him
That had been suppressed.

Then came Quentin—
In love with his sister Caddy
Her muddy panties.

Up in the tree—
Peering into the bedroom
Of death & darkness.

Quentin avatar—
Flashbacks from Harvard
Seancing the Past.

Quentin queer—
For handsome Dalton Ames
On the bridge that day.

Coyly hinted at—
But obviously apparent
To any modern reader.

Sex with Dalton—
Same with Shreve McCannon
Sex and Seancing.

Isn’t that how—
It’s done my dears huh?
Bon the Beautiful nods…

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Percival Brownlee Redux

PERCIVAL BROWNLEE REDUX ____________________________

Writing Business

“This is the end of the ledger's
account of Brownlee, but not
of Isaac's. Brownlee again
interrupts the story that Isaac
wants to tell, of his grandfather's
sins, as Isaac moves his narration
through the Civil descendants.
It seems clear that before Isaac
can discuss his grandfather's
sexuality, his father's sexuality
intrudes.”—Noel Polk & Richard
Godden, "Reading the ledgers,”
The Mississippi Quarterly
Faulkner’s writing style—
It’s full of interruptions
Gaps, blanks, question marks.

It’s up to Readers—
To complete the Narrative
The way they want to.

Like Hawthorne’s ledgers—
The purloined Scarlet Letter
Opens storylines.

And so Narrative—
Veers towards darker thoughts
Shadowy ledgers.

Future Southern darknesses
Advancing pages.

Ledgers conducting—
The writing business of
A doomed plantation.

Returning again—
To gay oral intercourse
Faulkner’s locution.

Tongues of lovers pun—
Subversively into the
Speech of dead brothers.


a self-consciously
—Joseph Urgo
Faulkner's Apocrypha:
"A Fable," "Snopes,"
and the Spirit of
Human Rebellion

As a writer’s synecdoche
Producing Others.

Alternatives for—
Other selves, other places
Fabulated now(s).

The ledger entries—
Indirectly explaining
Why Isaac's father…

Bought Brownlee for love—
A business transaction
Cotton field logic.

Pornographic Poetics

“a meditation on
an unsublimated,
pornographic poetics
in the emergence of
—Kodat, Catherine Gunther
“Posting Yoknapatawpha,”
The Mississippi Quarterly

It happens each day—
Armando cute Hispanic
Young Mexican kid.

Supposedly just—
My lawn-boy but really more
Like my Percival.

Arizona slaves—
Continuing the Deep South
Cotton field logic.

And intertextuality

Sublimation as—
Satisfaction of porno
Pulp Sanctuaries.

This young alien—
Illegal like all the rest
Needing some money.

Brown-skin slavery—
Arizona just as bad
As Mississippi?

Palin tea-baggers—
Feuilleton Journalism.
A big issue now.

Armando just like—
Percival Brownlee was then
A cute kept slave-boy

Gossip magazines—
Aspiring to poetics
Flaunt Porno erudition.

Delta Poetics

“The legers: a text
virtually unmoored
from conventional
linearity & periodicity.”
—Noel Polk & Richard Godden,
"Reading the ledgers,” The
Mississippi Quarterly 07-01-2002

Armando a slave—
Is that what I’m saying now
With these new ledgers?

The way text is—
Unmooring itself from the past
Into the future?

The irony is—
Like Uncle Buck I’m the slave
The real slave to love.

“Don’t mow the lawn kid,”—
Skip all the goddamn yard work
I want you in bed.

Put on some porno—
Smoke a joint & get naked
I be his sex-slave.

“Having used verse,
I would now allow verse
to use me if it could.”
—William Faulkner
Early Prose and Poetry

Perhaps with the same—
Secretly unscrupulous
Intentions for love.

Without repression—
Translating this postage stamp
World like Faulkner did.

Brownlee a good lay—
Even tho aint no bookkeeper
Or cotton picker.

Armando’s the same—
He’s only good for one thing
To love and be loved?