Saturday, August 27, 2011
Poems for the Sewanee Review
Art deco murals on the downstairs walls of
Allen Hall long-time home of the
LSU English department
Poems for the
“Dear Blackbird” for Jane Springer
“River Road Nostalgia” for Jane Springer
"Brooding Civil War Memories" for Jane Springer
"Blackbird Blowjob" for Jane Springer
"View Carre Rough Trade" for Jane Springer
"Sebastian" for Jane Springer
—for Jane Springer
Last night I sucked the darkness—
every mulatto inch of your body’s blackness
outta your mandingo trademark voodoo lips.
Not a sound from you all night long—
except at the very end when your Congolese
Thick river shot up my Zimbabwe nose.
My only thought was getting my whitey—
discontented Mapplethorpe lips on your
pouty African-American slightly huge root.
When I rimmed you and the abyss let go—
eclipsing both of us with stolen blackbird wings
I got what I wished for and then some.
River Road Nostalgia
Whenever I think about you now—
remembering how you never let me get
too close to you when you were naked.
The way you didn’t wanna trick with me—
just another dirty white boy who got off on
built guyz like you working in the cane field.
I couldn’t help myself tho and you knew it—
sweaty, shirtless, smirking at me so sharply
almost as sharp as your razorblade machete.
Parking my mother’s Cadillac convertible—
the one with the big ’59 erect phallic shark-fins
waiting to pick you up after work back then.
Your equine dimensions that just don’t quit—
south of campus down by the Mississippi levee
that’s where we park on jungle River Road.
That’s where you do your Negro séance—
your eyeballs rolled back, your muscles tense
blowing your brains outta the back of my head.
I know you thought about ditchin me—
riding your loins, cleaved to your obscene
taut hips and what came at the end.
Spraining your neck sometimes bad—
jetting your straight black soul into me
but the money was too good to turn down.
Blackbird impetuous badboy rapture—
I was willing to hock my mother’s jewels
and steal from her bridge party lady friends.
Nothing but your boots on in the back seat—
disenfranchised from eyeballs to asshole
stoney blackbird wings flapping to get away.
Brooding Civil War Memories
Up and down the Mississippi riverbanks—
dozens of antebellum luxurious mansions
long oak-lined driveways leading up to
rich Delta Bourbon Plantation Homes…
My mother a DuBois descended queen—
so was I in my own way even tho I couldn’t
help it wanting to slum with Mandingo slaves.
So that I was the one ending up enslaved—
nothing’s worse than being a Dinge Queen
and ending up on the Slave block yourself.
Vieux Carré Rough Trade
“This artistic devotion—or obsession—
is certainly evident in the myriad
versions of Vieux Carré, a play begun
in 1939, during Williams’s first visit to
New Orleans, and revised—through
no fewer than ten different stages
of development.”—Robert Bray,
“A Reading of the Reading,” The
Tennessee Williams Annual Review
There are some guyz with god gone—
outta them with two upturned eyes like dice
rolling snake eyes when they lose it so nice.
There are some guyz who sinch their jeans—
with big black leather belts and who like to
piss on a guy like me down by the levee.
There are some guyz with god gone—
Man-wild, dick-crazy with enough strength
To keep me corpsed in his grip in the backseat.
Spit from his cruel mouth drooling into mine—
Making me forget my name, what year it was
Along with all the other hot guyz before him.
I’d often dreamed of lovin the holiness back—
Into his mean streak and blood-blitzed eyes
All the way down to his tight-curled toes.
But there’s no way he was gonna whimper—
Bending back in suspended animation lust
Making me take just what I fuckin deserved.
“If a horse
of a man in him”
If a man has something of a horse in him—
down there where it counts ten or twelve inches
that’s what he insisted on pumping into me.
He played dumb a lot which is kinda hard when—
your animal intelligence is close to genius level
barefoot afterwards, his gait a swanky swag.
His big black flat nostrils always erect—
quivering all the time, smelling me, checking
me out, getting a good whiff of whitey stink.
He pitied me, looked down at me, smirked—
worse than any trailer park white trash whore
giving me a panic attack whenever he said no.
I looked at him like he was Godzilla’s boner—
a prehistoric lizard especially on mushrooms
superhuman without even knowing it.
Each time Old Man River gushes through him—
a rebirth of black love like Kilimanjaro coming
breaking the bank of Monte Carlo once again.
The scent of his damp armpits intoxicating—
His crooked bent veiny black manhood rooted
In the tight kinky triangle of his matted pubes.
Posted by pugetopolis at 11:22 PM