Saturday, September 3, 2011

Hart Crane's Tomb

Hart Crane’s Tomb

At Hart Crane’s Tomb

Often beneath the Carib waves—
My bones down here in embassy row
Obscured by waves off Havana
Ache to be back in Brooklyn again.

I was a wreck before I jumped—
Leaving behind a broken tower full
Of hieroglyphic indecipherable portraits
Mexico’s Aztec gods getting revenge.

Down there in the Carib calm—
My charm and malice didn’t matter
Somehow reconciled down there deep
I wish I were a screamer again.

Brooklyn Bridge and East River—
Would’ve preferred to be my grave
Chic “jumping off” point for dead poets
That New York knows only so well.

Panorama Prima Donnas

“While nigger cupids
scour the stars”
—Hart Crane, “Marriage
of Faustus and Helen,”
White Building

The mood shifts with time-
Earlier Whitman, then Lorca
No one sleeps in New York City
Even the dead deny they’re asleep.

Skyscrapers full of mummies—
Iguanas and serpents live above
Below Brooklyn Bridge the corpses
Enter moonlit moody theaters.

Sleepless city up in the sky—
Even broken hearted ones don’t die
Cosmopolitan crocodile city where
No one sleeps, no one dies.

Manhattan skylines loom—
Those who died in childbirth stalk
Footsteps, pavements, subways
Waterfronts, cute young sailors.

The Broken Tower

The cordage that gathers—
Coiled in destroying angel groins
Crane cruised them relentlessly
Knowing that they needed it.

Broken towers know everything—
The Chrysler Building spilling the beans
Billy Budd’s loins into Central Park
Tempting Moby Dick size queens.

The young lean towers stretch—
Testicular sailorboy cordage tight
Then relaxed, hanging down loose
Uncoiling, unwrinkling softly.

Brooklyn Bridge broken towers—
Hart Crane’s desperate desire to
Know young sailor thighs flexing
Pulsing, squirting their brains out.

Tall veiny towers, cables below—
Blood, sperm, young beating hearts
Was it any different than the Aztecs
Spread-eagling it, copping a feel?

Key West

Sailorboy spluge, male meteorite—
White arch, wrist and biceps mine
Feeling him sink, Moon over Miami
How to be frugal, fuck me again.

Young Adam’s dick, not his rib—
My lips annealed to his erect tit
Sailors impartial, they don’t disown
I strike a match, we smoke a joint.

So what if each babypaste wad—
Ends up in some dead end street?
The kid’s progeny smears my lips
My tongue up his tight asshole.

Such strong towering legs—
Bent, weak, Brooklyn Bridge boy
Unraveling, uncoiling, undoing
His young manhood just for me.

To Walt Whitman

You who desired so much in vain—
Feeding your hunger with wounded
Union young soldierboyz dying there
In the DC still night tents of the war.

Daring to dignify being a nurse—
Cheering them in their last moments
Before the sweet, dead Silencer came
To whisk them off to Lincoln Park.

Candy, flowers, pen and paper—
Helping them to write letters home
Giving them some reconcilement as
They faded from the remotest mind.

Needing all your wit and humor—
To love, to bind, to somehow blush
The rubyless glistening eyes of boyz
Before the chill clay-cold closing night.

Lost Boyz of Paradise

They had come to me here—
From the sea all the way from home
Brooklyn Heights cliff and citadel
Making love with them in bed.

Thru eyes of mad Melville—
Limping gimp worse than Ahab
Young Queequeg harpooning them
Billy Budd riding doomed coffins.

The Bridge for me each morning—
Lost boyz of gone paradise sleeping
Fixing some coffee bleary-eyed loaded
Still tasting their heavenly jizz.

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