Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Black Osiris Moans

Black Osiris Moans

The night is humid—
The old writer sips whiskey
The visitors come

Magnolias seethe—
Ancient cypresses hung low
Weeping Spanish Moss

Family of Undead—
Modernist moody Egypt
Revisits Living

Going down on him—
Going down on Young Moses
Black Osiris wakes…

Activate the archetypes
The time has come now

The dusty archives—
Pyramid Penis Power
Papyrus awake!

Nubian princes—
Diaspora refugees
Delta speak to me!

Young black Moses kid—
Yoknapatawpha down-low
Rowan Oaks séance

Black snake sheds its skin—
Channeling Mississippi
Delta Darkness Deep…

Friday, May 13, 2011

Black Jesus



Jesus and Ogoun find
ample place in the crescent
of the Mississippi’s waters.”
—Alden Reimonenq, “Palmnut
Crossroads at New Orleans,”
Hoodoo Headrag

If you wanna know—
The black gays in any town
Or Southern city

Sunday go to church—
Reverend Long’s young disciples
Young black Jesus studs

Across this great land—
Churches have been the haven
Milking the black bull

Hallelujah highs—
Atlanta, Georgia down-lows
It be dinge heaven

Doing the down-low—
Going down on young Moses
Seed of Abraham

Born-again snake-moan—
As I ooze down thru quicksand
Mandingo save me

Rod of teen Aaron—
Parting the Red Sea each time
Black Jesus fuck me

“Secrets and prayers are rare
when gods are made to fight.”
—Alden Reimonenq, “Palmnut
Crossroads at New Orleans,”
Hoodoo Headrag

James Baldwin turns his—
Cheek & spreads his ass again
The look in his eyes

“C’mon, fuck me, man”—
He says to Eldridge Cleaver
Muy macho stud

“Why do you hate me?”
When butch Ishmael Reed calls
Him a cocksucker

Even whites get queered—
Faggy William Buckley
Trashing Gore Vidal

Secrets and prayers are—
Rare when gays & straights get-down
And fight each other

Nothing like a good—
Fucking bitch-fight down there
In the Delta mud

Mardi Gras madness—
Screaming Stonewall drag-queens who
Simply had enough

Judy Garland’s death—
The wrong time for the cops to
Raid all the gay bars…

“But new gods are found
buried above ground
when old ones lose shape.”
—Alden Reimonenq, “Palmnut
Crossroads at New Orleans,”
Hoodoo Headrag

Gimme Black Jesus—
Let him raise me from the Dead
Wake up, Lazarus!!!

Black Osiris speak—
Let’s hear the Burning Bush sing
Ancient Muse Voice!!!

Cecile B. DeMille—
Fuck me with Cinemascope
Technicolor Jizz!!!

Go Down on Moses—
Gimme Right Wing Jesus Freak
Resurrection Sex!!!

Save me from evil—
Jerry Fartwell, Oral Roberts
Jimmy Swaggart studs!!!

Pat Robertson’s TV Shows—
Evangelical Blow Jobs
Palin’s creepy mob

“Crossed spirits create
imbalance in believers;
then, skeptics start praying.”
—Alden Reimonenq, “Palmnut
Crossroads at New Orleans,”
Hoodoo Headrag

Atlanta cynics—
Point to the Reverend Long’s
Choice of disciples

Long likes boyz long—
Long, lanky, cute, athletic
Black angels with wings

Buys them nice jewelry—
Nice clothes, swanky Cadillacs
He be down-low cool

After awhile though—
Even they turned Judas priest
On their minister

And blew the whistle—
On what they did in bed then
In black paradise…

“And ancestor talk
creeps gingerly—like a
gravedigger in a flood—
into confused souls on the
brink of two uneven worlds.”
—Alden Reimonenq, “Palmnut
Crossroads at New Orleans,”
Hoodoo Headrag

It takes lotsa dough—
To bridge the color line now
To be a Kingfish

Long knows how to play—
The flesh flute all the way down
To Black Snake Moan Time

Milking the Black Bull—
Higher than a kite walking
On the dark waters

Katrina floods the—
Big Easy cemeteries
Graves float down the streets

Black ancestor bones—
Clogged the View Carre streets down
In the French Quarter

Old faggot drag queens—
Swished mysteriously through
Lafitte’s late at night

We could hear Snakes moan—
Resurrected old dinge queens
Bemoaned their demise

There was a sad wake—
Lafayette Cemetery
Late each midnight moon

It’s funny how things—
Work out when tragedy strikes
The Deep South Delta Soul

Black noir déjà vu—
Does the Hoodoo Voodoo
Zombie dance again

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Love Isn't Enough

Love Isn't Enough

Cor Cordium

The look in his eyes—
Saying goodbye to Harlem
And the Renaissance

Not sad like Thurmond—
Not chic & gay like Nugent
Not brave like Langston

Not sophisticated like—
Carl Van Vechten with his
Coterie of friends

What happened to him—
Countee Cullen the Poet
The Man of the Hour?

The New Harlem Voice—
Niggeratti Ariel
The Movement’s John Keats?

Some say he faded—
Suffering a sea change back
Into his boyhood

Uranian Heart—
Teaching junior high young boyz
What only he knew

And one of them felt—
The same Uranian ache
The young James Baldwin

Love Isn’t Enough

“Love is enough,”
I read somewhere
—Countee Cullen,
“To An Unknown Poet,”
The Black Christ


“Love isn’t enough”—
I read it late at night
On a Tea-room wall

There in Allen Hall—
Where Robert Penn Warren
Once taught poetry


“Love isn’t enough”—
Where Andre Cordrescue posed
As Exquisite Corpse

Teaching young zombies—
How to come back to life one
More hopeless lifetime


“Love isn’t enough”—
John Hazard Wildman told me
Late one humid night

As we strolled thru the—
Quad past the library to
His Highland Road home


“Love isn’t enough”—
Allen Ginsberg told me once
City Lights Attic

Up where poetry—
Books of the San Francisco
Beat Movement were dear


“Love isn’t enough”—
The kid in Japantown said
Naked sushi smile

As I sucked a long—
Tart octopus tentacle
Outta his coiled loins


“Love isn’t enough”—
I said as I jumped off the
Cruel Golden Gate Bridge

Down into the shark—
Infested waters only
To be pulled out safe


“Love isn’t enough”—
The young Coast Guard kid
Said to me on deck

How I clung to him—
For a whole year after that
He was my Sea Wolf


“Love isn’t enough”—
The whole world keeps telling me
Over and over

And yet love evades me—
He saves my life & then some
Isn’t that enough?


“Love isn’t enough”—
I read it between the lines
Countee Cullen wept

The Harlem boy who—
Really never quite grew up
Baldwin his lover


“Love isn’t enough”—
James Baldwin says the same thing
Ran away to France

Paris embraced him—
Like young Arthur Rimbaud and
Poor sad Paul Verlaine


“Love isn’t enough”—
Armando tells me in bed
My lazy lawn boy

I end up doing—
All the work around the joint
He gets stoned instead


“Love isn’t enough”—
The seagulls high above and
The crows down below

The lake has whitecaps—
Mt. Rainier finally blows
While Armando cums


“Love isn’t enough”—
Whispers the secret jet-stream
Off the Pacific

The Fukushima winds—
Cesium bouquets of death
Descend from the sky


“Love isn’t enough”—
Pelicans, turtles & shrimp
Gulf of Mexico

And now it’s my turn—
Dead Redneck Riviera
Pacific Northwest


“Love isn’t enough”—
It’s never enough for the
Voodoo Boardroom Creeps

Bring in the Baron—
The Floating Fat Man Ruler
New Giedi Prime Lord

Monday, May 9, 2011

Countee Cullen and Queer Theory III

Countee Cullen
and Queer Theory III

Snake Moan

“The lily, being white not red,
Contemns the vivid flower,
And men alive believe the dead
Have lost their vital power”
—Countee Cullen,
Copper Sun

Lily-white cute boyz—
They’re cool & reserved young studs
Except at the end

Even then restrained—
Always holding something back
Some whiteboy secret

Getting them loaded—
Only makes it more intense
The way they hide it

Whiteboyz reluctant—
Their smooth masculinity
For sale but that’s all

Their vital power—
I can taste slave master cum
It screws me up bad

Getting one in bed—
A hot young Italian
Puerto Rican prick

They can be tres hot—
But a black man when he cums
I hear a Snake moan…

Proud White Boy

“The prey is caged
and walked about
with no way in or
no way out”
—Countee Cullen,
“Advice to Beauty,”
Copper Sun

Of all things most proud—
The false pride of a whiteboy
Such a waste of time

Nobody but us—
Pays him any attention
What a living waste

But if we do gaze—
Too much at young male beauty
Things get ugly fast

One must woo beauty—
In the haunts & dark night streets
Where it hangs out proud

Beauty beating off—
What a waste of rare delight
We suffer the loss

So in dead cities—
On certain dim street corners
Known to the in-crowd

A lovely face there—
Exists with caveat emptor
Slim, caged, no way out

No way in except—
One pays for the inner grace
That male thing most rare

Poets gaze & sing—
How radiant haughty pride
Cheap for a few bucks

Then getting him off—
Even his gangly naïve
Awkwardness is nice…

Knots once neatly crossed—
Unravel like rubber bands
Releasing the jizz…

Edward Perry’s Song

“To symbols strange to us
May reckon clearer to his love”
—Countee Cullen,
“More Than a Fool’s Song,”
Copper Sun

I looked for beauty—
Where I least expected it
That’s where I found love

For an honest view—
Seek out a young male hustler
The feast in his groin

For masculine truth—
Consult the liar in jail
Bail him out & thrive

Court young male pleasure—
In crypts of grief where tears flow
That’s where cum flows too

A youth’s worth impearled—
Virgin chastity best known
To hide harlot’s sin

If you suffer pain—
Think crucified there in bed
Fucked by a young stud

A riddle plays games—
You aren’t hurtling down to hell
You’re climbing back up!!!

It may not be chance—
But rather coincidence
That transports us here

The Organist
—for Emerson Whithorne

“False-faced amid
a pageant”
—Countee Cullen,
“Hunger,” Copper Sun

He played the organ—
At the local Harlem church
By day but at night…

He played another—
Organ straight out of Sodom
And rude Gomorrah

It filled the lonely—
Emptiness deep inside him
Lotus languid juice

It cooled desert thirst—
Swooning him away from that
Anodyne restlessness

Sunday services—
All the dreary funerals
Sad artifices

But back home at night—
No impotent truce with the
Hunger of his dreams

He gave lessons to—
A young teenage handsome doll
On the piano

With Louie Armstrong—
Playing in the gone background
“Why Am I So Blue?”

He Was My Rosebud Boy

“For a mouth is the best
of sweets to suck;
the oldest wine’s on
the lip”
—Countee Cullen,
“Youth Sings a Song of
Rosebuds,” Copper Sun

I need sweets to live—
To survive the diffident
Difficult long day

A pair of young lips—
To blossom above the mire
The shitty old world

“Growing old isn’t”—
Like Bette Davis once said
“For sissies, my dears.”

I may be just a—
Querulous old queer queen bee
But I’m no dummy

I still get turned on—
When a young guy squeezes me
Gives me a French kiss…

I aint got no time—
For that Old Dame Thanatos
She can just Fuck Off

Gimme Rosebud Lips—
A guy blooming in the Spring
And his Brother too!!!

Imagist Soiree

“All flesh bears:
Made to die”
—Countee Cullen,
“Advice to Beauty,”
Copper Sun

I dreamed late one night—
I met Amy Lowell & Pound
A cocktail party

I looked at them and—
They looked back at me as if
I were an old friend

“Basho?” they both said—
“We thought you were away still
On your Journey North?”

So I shrugged & said—
“Fukushima fucked me up
Future Japan’s gone…”

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Countee Cullen and Queer Theory II

Countee Cullen
and Queer Theory II

Harlem Boyhood

“For some, godfather and goddame
The opulent fairies be;
Dame poverty gave me my name,
And Pain godfathered me”
—Countee Cullen,
“Saturday’s Child,”

I get nostalgic—
For the Harlem Renaissance
Back in the Twenties

Back when NYC—
Was a Refuge for Southern
Diaspora Love

When Smoke, Lilies, Jade—
Comforted Queens like Nugent
Niggeratti Muse

But I be alone—
A helpless Black Closet Case
In Love with White Boyz

I Crossed the Line

“And veins too thin
and blue to show—
what mingled blood
flowed there”
—Countee Cullen,
“Two Who Crossed A Line,”

From where I loved them—
I craved the smell & taste of
Bad dirty white boyz

I couldn’t help it—
My gods & I crossed the line
Mingling with their cum

It hurt to see them—
Erect in bed & haughty
So pale with blue veins

The way they lost it—
Their cute faces distended
Way down to their groins

I forgot their names—
Brooklyn boyz so disdainful,
Greenwich Village tricks

Getting them outta—
Mob neighborhood gangster mind
Be the hardest thing

Now in my Condo—
They drop their macho bullshit
Along with their shorts

The cute proud ones smirk—
A Harlem poet-teacher
Down on his fag knees

Pagan Prayer

“Black men create
this love thing:
a fated argosy
prorogued by words”
—Alden Reimonenq,
“Black Male Cocoons,”

I prayed for myself—
Down there on my faggot knees
To be a White Boy

I should know better—
But my pagan heart was mad
I needed White Dick

I needed Kinship—
Their Whitey Family Tree
Flowing inside me

I was just Black Sheep—
I closed my African eyes
And became Whitey

White Boy Slave Masters—
I retrieved my Race thru them
Became Black Jesus

I queered White Pharaoh—
I Became Black Osiris
I be Pagan Dinge

All it took was just—
One squirt of White Boy semen
To be High Yellow

Wisdom Cometh with Cum

“the dirty fingernails;
layers of dingy clothes;
ashy skin and rankness;
smoky and liquored breath”
—Alden Reimonenq,
“The Trade Turns,”

I liked him naïve—
Young sullenly insolent
Squirting his cum slow

I liked him stupid—
Snotty-nosed, harelipped chicken
I got him at night

I liked him spastic—
When he looked at me cross-eyed
Smoking a fat joint

I liked him street-wise—
Hustling for a buck or two
I sucked his brains out

He took a whole year—
But now when I think of him
I just simply puke…

For A White Boy

“I have wrapped
my dreams in a
silken cloth”
—Countee Cullen,
“For a Poet,”

I saved his punk cream—
In a pink silk handkerchief
In a golden box

I hid my gay shame—
I clung to the cloth of cum
A moth drawn to flame

With trembling fingers—
I inhaled the smell of him
And fainted again

A handsome white kid—
The handkerchief was still damp
I could taste his jizz

Cramming it down deep—
Inside my Mandingo mouth
The white boy was mine

Niggeratti Condo

“All day long and
all night through,
one thing only must
I do: quench my pride
And cool my blood”
—Countee Cullen,
“Heritage,” Color

My black heritage—
Keeping it in the closet
There at work each day

I can’t let it out—
Surely they’ll find out my
HooDoo VooDoo love

That my mind & heart—
Be a savage cannibal
For forbidden meat

That I crave it bad—
Dirty White Boy jizzy cum
I like the young stuff

I’m in the closet—
I teach Frederick Douglass
Junior High School French

But then late at night—
I turn into Medea
Betrayed Black Woman

White America—
My closety Negro lips
Craves your white rough trade

Fuck the throbbing drums—
My pulsing dark blood within
My gone Congo past

I sleep with White Snakes—
Their pale Nakedness I hate
But I need it Bad

Young ghetto white boyz—
Dark-haired young Italians
Hot hung Hispanics

I laugh at their quaint—
Outlandish heathen old gods
Gimme the young godz

This New Depression—
Makes them desperate for dough
My Cadillac talks

For a hundred bucks—
My Niggeratti Condo
Be a busy place

Smoke, dope, jaded boyz—
I get them loaded real nice
Then I suck them off

Caucasian Cock

“Surely then this flesh
would know yours had
borne a kindred woe”
—Countee Cullen,
“Heritage,” Color

Caucasian cock—
Slide back his cheesy foreskin
It tastes just awful

So tart & ugly—
Father, Son & Holy Dick
Young New York manhood

Getting him off and—
Strangling it to fuckin’ death
My former Masters

Reversing Dred Scott—
The more White boy cum I get
The more he’s my Slave

Butchy buzzcut kid—
My tongue up his tight asshole
Before I fuck him

Yanking his tit-ring—
Getting the Taser dildo
All the way up there

Closet Case

“I am for sleeping
and forgetting all
that has gone before”
—Countee Cullen,
“Requiscam,” Color

I’m all for lying—
Lying still & letting sin
Pass me by each day

But then late at night—
When the summer heat beats down
And I cruise the streets

That’s when I really—
Start lying to myself and
Peruse the Meat Racks

New York’s hot sun sets—
Hopefully to rise no more
But it always does

I’m all for lying—
And forgetting it in bed
What I did last night

The carnal dumb ache—
Desires & groping for love
His spermy godhead

His skin white as snow—
Caucasian angel food cake
His nice whitey dick

His lies worse than mine—
His manhood always locked-up
Only my dinge-key…

Countee Cullen and Queer Theory

Countee Cullen
and Queer Theory

“the oxymoron of
a closeted openness”
—Alden Reimonenq, “Countee
Cullen’s Uranian ‘Soul Windows’,
Critical Essays: Gay and Lesbian
Writers of Color

What does queer theory—
Tell us about Countee Cullen
And his poetry?

By the white community
Outside gay Harlem?

And black machismo—
Backed up by religious

Strange Brother (1931)

“Pettit who was white
and from Milwaukee,
fell in love with a
Black youth in Harlem”
—Alden Reimonenq, “Countee
Cullen’s Uranian ‘Soul Windows’,
Critical Essays: Gay and Lesbian
Writers of Color

The Black youth was cute—
Leland Pettit fell in love
With the handsome boy.

Cullen dedicated—
“Color” a poem to them
in his Copper Sun.

Red & Black & Death—
Twisting on a tree with some
Squealing little pigs.

“Color” (1927)

“This bit of Harlem
gay history was later
fictionalized in Blair
Niles’ novel, Strange
Brother (1931)”
—Alden Reimonenq, “Countee
Cullen’s Uranian ‘Soul Windows’,
Critical Essays: Gay and Lesbian
Writers of Color

Pettit in real life—
Blair Niles’ young gay confidant
Knew gay Harlem well.

He was organist—
At the Harlem Grace Church
There on Broadway Ave.

And felt at home there—
Within the Harlem black gay
Community back then.

Infants of the Spring

“Leland Pettit looms
transparently behind
the character of Mark
—Alden Reimonenq, “Countee
Cullen’s Uranian ‘Soul Windows’,
Critical Essays: Gay and Lesbian
Writers of Color

But also, Leyland—
Petit plays Samuel Carte
Barely fictional

Petit introduced—
Thurman to Canadian
Harald Slefansson

Stephen in Infants—
Thurman's Niggeratti lover
During Manor years

Pettit, Leland "Sonny" Age 65, of Brooklyn Center. Funeral Service 11 am Monday at Discover Church, 1400 81st Ave. N, Brooklyn Park. Visit 4-8 pm Today in the Miller Funeral Home, 6210 Hwy 65
Published in Star Tribune on May 23, 2010

Sunday, May 1, 2011

You Just Don't Care At All


You Just Don't Care At All


“Incomplete & unaware—
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth

I didn’t care—I just didn’t care anymore. I was in love with both of them—the Jones boyz. And they were in love with themselves—Tyrone & Jerome. Jesus christ—I stood outside in the rain. Knowing they were getting it on—I didn’t wanna go in. But I couldn’t help myself—dinge incestuous hot sex drove me fuckin’ crazy. I loved it & hated it—I hated being left out. I ended up with sloppy seconds—I had the faggy white boy blues. I had it bad—I just didn’t care anymore…


“To round your hips—
Indent your waist
And hollow your buttocks
Above muscled thighs”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth

I wandered up & down the streets at night—Tiger Town in the humid fuckin’ night. But I couldn’t help myself—I just didn’t care at all. How could I do this to myself—fall in love with a pair of dark angels? Wanting both of them so bad—biting my lip & beating off just thinking about them. They were blind to anything else—yet in bed afterwards they just laughed in my face. “Stupid, dumb, fucked-up whiteboy. All you think about is black dick—aint you ever done pussy, faggot breath?” I just didn’t care anymore—what they said or how much they dished me. I was mad for it—I was fucking dick-crazy for both of them. I was the pussy—and they knew it.


“To sculpt complete
Your torso—all
All but your eyes
Shadowed by buzzcut
Pubes naively disarranged”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth

I’d stand in Allen Hall—during rush hour of the godz. In between classes—Absalom, Absalom on my mind. Shreve & Quentin—doing their sex séance. Just like Jerome & Tyrone. Getting stoned all the time—back in our apartment. I just didn’t care anymore—I just didn’t care at all. I’d been reduced to a stream-of-consciousness suicidal Benjy Compson—lost in immediate madness. All I could do was smell them in bed—and get them off when they let me. They knew I didn’t care anymore—they tortured me just to drive me mad. The worst thing was after a hot sixty-nine—Tyrone would kiss me & let Jerome’s cum ooze into my mouth. He knew I loved his younger brother—he loved him too. Twelve inches of dinge love—was nothing to laugh at. How I fuckin’ cried for more…


“Your thick lips—
So full, so gently straight.
Your embarrassed smile lame,
Spoke in your gaze and I
Read your thoughts & knew
What fears & disbeliefs
And (perhaps) shameful
Hopes you had”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth

Both Jerome & Tyrone read my lips—they were good at it. They could read my mind too—they were intuitive & smart about dirty white boyz like me. They knew me better than I knew myself—all I knew was that I had it bad. Yoknapatawpha was running thru me—faster than the Yazoo River, baby. I just didn’t care anymore—I was a Delta decadent straight outta Go Down, Moses. Faulkner was the only writer I could stand to read anymore—Mississippi dinge meat was all I could think about. I stood out in the rain thinking about it—I loitered in the Allen Hall tearooms but the glory holes bored me. I was good at one thing—Going Down on Moses. Two young teen Black Moses boyz—I just didn’t care anymore. I was worse than Delta Bourbon Slave Master L.Q.C. McCaslin—except I was the whiteboy slave on the slave-block. But I just didn’t care anymore—I couldn’t help myself…


“I saw your eyes—
Slow-slanting out—
The pupils strangely hued
Tangled with lashes
Faint brown, gray, green
Chrome flecked with
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth

I didn’t care anymore—I wanted to be Dinge. I wanted to be Black—I wanted to be anything but the faggot who I was. The more I got—the more I wanted to be them. Tyrone & Jerome—the epitome of Deep South dinge chicken love. I’d stand there looking up at the WPA Thirties murals—up there on the walls of Allen Hall. I could feel it—the Huey P. Long Camelot charisma flowing thru me. I stood there at the foot of the looming art deco Louisiana State Capitol Penis so proudly erect—high over the sullen Mississippi above the Kingfish’s grave after tricking at night in the dark bushes at night. Sluggish & slow—I felt my youth ooze thru me along with all the skanky tangy testicular shame of it. But I didn’t care anymore…


“A midnight iris—
Fragmented light
I read your thought
And softly said—
Come into me now”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth

I’m lucky to have got outta Baton Rouge alive—but a part of me never left. I got this dinge doppleganger who’s still down there—what can I fuckin’ say? I feel it ache—I feel it deep inside me. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it—both Tyrone & Jerome. The last I heard they both got married of course—and divorced. Both had kids—naturally or unnaturally both Tyrone & Jerome had a son. The last time I was in town after Katrina—I got more than I expected. I just didn’t care anymore—at least that’s what I thought. Until Jerome’s teenage son knocked at my motel’s door. All of a sudden I started caring again—I got him inside real quick & we got down. I felt so ashamed of myself—his name was Dwayne. Dwayne Jerome Jones—and he’d heard all about me. It cost me though—$100 a big fat wad. But I didn’t care anymore—it be déjà vu dinge, baby………