Monday, October 31, 2011

Chimes Street Journal



Queering the Confederacy:
Chimes Street Journal XIX-XXI
__________________

“the palm tree
out my window”
—John Wieners,
August 11, The Journal of
John Wieners Is to Be
Called 707 Scott Street
For Billie Holiday

she be butterfly mcqueen—
knowing nothin about babies
but lots about young men

she didn’t care about—
the day or the arms of the
spiral nebula galaxy

her tarot deck was enough—
to clue her into each day and
a young guy’s adam’s apple

slipping down his bell bottoms—
him standing nude at night by
the window, did it matter?

just the joy of him around—
hearing him move in the rooms
breathing hard in the apartment

like a delta verb unfolding—
her lips brushing his bellybutton
more like a cat than a woman

unraveling she thought—
all the hidden secrets of the
world bending down doing it

but the delta demanded—
more than just a dinge slacker
drugs & her attentions

these weren’t the kind of—
decadent powers that the
delta dimensions needed

there were special moments—
and motions going downward
inward toward decadence

getting lewd & unconscious—
more than just faggoty dreams
could possibly come up with

behind the dope the dawning—
realization that some hideous
knowledge was spewing her face

it came back to haunt her—
legacy of old lovers like a savage
going down on moses once again

old carothers mccaslin buying a—
mistress for his slave-lover thucydus
then making love to their daughter

then waiting for his young son—
committing even more incest and
miscegenation with his progeny

his own daughter, his own son—
this heritage of human ownership
this blaxploitation doing down low

Chimes Street Journal XX

“at times called evil
because of this world”
—John Wieners,
August 11, The Journal of
John Wieners Is to Be
Called 707 Scott Street
For Billie Holiday

from that moment on—
being born plantation-bred
like bon of interracial love

ike mccaslin reading it—
finally understanding what
the ledgers really meant

incestuous miscegenation—
between father, daughter
and sucking off his own son

“no, no, not even him”—
the pure and perfect incest
the ur-sanctuary primal rape

henry sutpen appalled—
by his own brother a mulatto
he’d fallen in love with him

they’d got it on there—
in the ole miss dormitory
eulalia getting her revenge

then dovetailing down into—
go down moses and doing
the absalom down-low thing

her apocryphal history—
like the falkner family set forth
in unvanquished short stories

shadow families, shadow sons—
shadow daughters, ongoing
shadow performances

the old colonel’s legacy—
the incestuous coupling of
her lips with creole dinge

she became delta autumn—
tallahatchie river dreams
she didn’t hate the south

“i don’t hate it,” she said—
the worthless oral intercourse
creaming her cumly lips

she felt orphaned from—
herself, dirty yet shameless
knowing true adultery now

her poet identity—
written down in a ledger
a plantation commissary note

ledgers & delta fiction—
enigmatic manuscripts
full of hidden sin, sex

a disillusioned sense—
of bondage & deliverance
cryptic black slave cock

sex after knowing that—
a collaborative negro text
her inmost-me was dinge

yoknapatawpha cum—
elegiac wasted loves and
corrupted imagination

gone hippie innocence—
she had a secret of her own
she be a dinge queen now

Chimes Street Journal XXI

“the legacy given
us at our birth”
—John Wieners,
August 11, The Journal of
John Wieners Is to Be
Called 707 Scott Street
For Billie Holiday

it comes back to—
haunt her, betraying the
moment of her birth

it wasn’t a shameful—
legacy like bon’s mulatto
prick when he was born

miss faulkner is discrete—
colonel sutpen rats around
down in the big easy

finds out eulalia is back—
no longer back home down
there in haiti with her father

old man sutpen finding out—
his exiled negro son is married
with a kid in the vieux carré

a young handsome bon vivant—
a flamboyant beautiful young man
courting french quarter culture

but when did he really find out—
that eulalia was dinge not spanish
why did he throw them out?

eulalia tried to hid it—
the midwife didn’t want sutpen
to see his own newborn son

and when he forced his way—
into the plantation mansion dark
bedroom & opened the curtains

that’s when sutpen saw it—
what discrete genteel miss faulkner
doesn’t say about the kid

the same shock moviegoers—
felt back in the blaxploitation ‘60s
that french flick saying it all

“my baby’s black!!!” up there—
on the drive-in american screens
directed by claude bernard-aubert

a whole sanctuary-esque—
chapter could be written about
that absalom bedroom scene

the newborn youth naked—
pretty as a black jesus baby
born in a plantation manger

bon sutpen’s penis black—
jet-black as the ace of spades
her mother’s legacy revealed

he threw them out—
cursed her for ruining his
sutpen dynastic future plans

to become delta bourbon—
to be a southern gentleman
a mississippi cotton landowner

how could he be an aristocrat—
with a “nigger” son his legacy
and so he got remarried fast

but even so henry his son—
turned out to be a hick faggot
falling in love with his own brother

gawd knows what they did in bed—
one can just hear colonel sutpen
in his shiloh tent cursing henry

bon not only queered his son—
but was gonna marry his daughter
and set up his own dinge dynasty





Chimes Street Journal


Chimes Street Journal XIII-XVIII
__________________

“book of love poems

to spanish Johnny”
—John Wieners,
July 20, The Journal of
John Wieners Is to Be
Called 707 Scott Street
For Billie Holiday

what a rush when she—
wrote his name, willa cather
lonely prairie queen

a book opens up to—
the sky like a roof over
the plains, stone-writing

other writers locked—
outta the world writing
only for themselves

she’s down by the—
river, the kid and her
on a dark levee night

in a dumpy cadillac—
convertible she bought
second-hand cheap

nothing like style—
even tho it’s tacky and
cheap, especially so

what can she write about—
that other queens haven’t
already said and done?

muses are demons—
poems come outta pain
the heart beats faster

it’s an unnatural thing—
it can’t be produced like
gold from alchemy

it’s got ten toes—
shadows on the wall
that look like snakes

there’s no scheme—
only fragments coming
and going around her

her delta diary—
her fingers moving
across it, across him

Chimes Street Journal XIV

“language taut as a rope”
—John Wieners,
July 28, The Journal of
John Wieners Is to Be
Called 707 Scott Street
For Billie Holiday

doing without prepositions—
ditching the definite article
connecting without them

it grows even outgrows—
it picks queens who live it
renewing and pursuing

inconceivable ways—
down thru str8t history
only drag queens know

this ratty mansion—
rotting on chimes street
on the edge of abyss

propped up with smirks—
trojans and a pink scarf
staying indoors all day

servants of the night—
a crummy wall around her
and down below her

the mississippi rolls by—
it has its own cane fields and
a muscular guy she knows

years later the breeders—
spawn themselves down past
river road along the river

pissing and shitting—
their lovely flowering
existence day by day

baby boomer spawn—
then x-generation they
soon hog delta views

but in the sixties—
it was still naked and
primitive levee prepuce

west of nicholson drive—
between midnight & dawn
it was hot dog palace

then returning home—
to the chimes street dive
practicing contentment

coming and going—
something for nothing
dying in her arms

Chimes Street Journal XV

“the demonic horses”
—John Wieners,
July 30, The Journal of
John Wieners Is to Be
Called 707 Scott Street
For Billie Holiday

resigning herself—
like goethe’s egmont
steering the chariot

driving the cadillac—
the junk-heap of her life
avoiding the void, dears

“the speech of boyz”—
especially the bad ones
language of angels

not that she believed it—
it was only a souvenir or
fetish of the recent past

needy and lonely—
no poems could be made
outta memories so bad

nothing fresh or new—
no evocative images of
faces, only guilty hands

the old wide delta—
had always been alone
now it was her turn

she wrapped herself—
inside her writing and
the river’s sliding sludge

all over the page—
without any plan or will
no reconstruction design

other than billie holiday—
singing the southern blues
a conquered countryside

reminiscence, decadence—
degeneration, dope, hip
struggle, dreary drag

southern surrealism—
delta bourbon baroque
flesh, love, mardi gras

Chimes Street Journal XVI

“playing at little games”
—John Wieners,
August 6, The Journal of
John Wieners Is to Be
Called 707 Scott Street
For Billie Holiday

playing little games—
with herself like pretending
she’s quentin compson

one of the children—
of the dark house who’s
re-enacting the delta rites

taking herself too seriously—
returning to the grave too soon
seancing with henry and bon

what a paltry queen she is—
losing herself in absalom that
way, she’ll never get out

she’ll remain in there—
trapped in allen hall, dead
and declining like the south

plantation karma takes—
a long time to work its way
coming back thru tomorrow

miss faulkner’s novels hang—
there in the pawnshop windows
words come & go that way

sometimes that’s all she did—
using old storytelling ways for
a newer form of prose

what did its new form do—
what did it break thru, what
shape did it have, its contours?

if a writer isn’t engaged—
totally in creating a new form
what is she engaging herself with?

she dies every day—
it’s the limbo of contemporary
dixie, deadly speed & ease

and who was she—
nothing but a lonely queen
setting up outworn creeds

the needs of delta bourbon—
ever-avaricious ever-greedy
precious plantation secrets

shadow-families lurking—
in the philoprogenitive dark
haunting dixie bad boyz

Chimes Street Journal XVII

“and if I cannot
speak in poetry”
—John Wieners,
August 6, The Journal of
John Wieners Is to Be
Called 707 Scott Street
For Billie Holiday

poetry was too real for her—
it wasn’t the kind of poetry
one reads in books

it was found spontaneously—
in states of being around her
mundane queer flashes

she was totally ignorant—
of any true mysteries around
her chimes street existence

she was dumbed down—
a mumbling, meandering, stupid
brain-dead vegetable queen

maybe it was the dope—
the hippie weed & hookah nights
the mangy obsessions with guyz

she felt hunted by something—
she didn’t yearn for it like some
sad hypocritical closet-case

it was just there that’s all—
there was no use thinking about it
it just came & went like lovers

but it stalked her down—
it wanted every inch of her life
it moved thru her, doing her

she knew it was friday—
she knew what was happening
down on the street, so what?

Chimes Street Journal XVIII

“no need to
recount actions?”
—John Wieners,
August 11, The Journal of
John Wieners Is to Be
Called 707 Scott Street
For Billie Holiday

one thinks it’s a full moon—
with werewolf tides of prowling
the night for hippie tricks

but there was something else—
it worked to create even more
confusion around her each day

what a difference a lay makes—
but that wasn’t it either even
with velvet tides & sweet rides

undergoing trials of desire—
seemed to create strange voices
and hideous forms appeared

faces outta the past—
forgetting wasn’t natural
love didn’t occur in a vacuum

in the center of the angst—
jefferson davis sat on a rotting
dixie throne of red satin

cushioned under his elbow—
the everyday decay of the
deep south confederacy

the rot that ought to—
have stopped but didn’t
stinking bed of slavery

it wasn’t temporal—
the way dinge karma kept
passing thru antebellum past

mandingo manifestations—
lurked in the groin down
there where cum trembles

it springs from erections—
mulatto mouths and octoroon
loins, the colored cosmos

she felt it & knew it—
both desired high & low
men of both dixie & dinge

it kept her mind running—
over the edge of the levee
flooding her campus dump

Chimes Street Journal


Chimes Street Journal VII-XII
__________________

“the poem progresses
with my own life and pulls
me along with it”
—John Wieners,
July 20, The Journal of
John Wieners Is to Be
Called 707 Scott Street
For Billie Holiday

the tarot deck—
she picks one every
day, sets the tone

unleashing a chain—
of events that she
lives on, lies about

the hanged man—
he’s got a giant
nasturtium crotch

well hung kid—
his secret groin
narcotic unnatural

she can smell it—
smegma in the car
then the bedroom

she writes herself—
out of it, renewing
the continuous flesh

it’s unknown to her—
each time they make
love, it’s different

he reveals himself—
she practices compulsions
without any words

she does him—
“okay, take it” he sayz
his words are erect

Chimes Street Journal VIII

“but in the poem,
there has to be black”
—John Wieners,
July 22, The Journal of
John Wieners Is to Be
Called 707 Scott Street
For Billie Holiday

it’s mutant meat—
he calls it sweetie,
my baby, mr. squeeze

it’s not a poem—
he’s just playing with
himself, letting me

it’s what comes—
outta him that’s the
poem pushing shame

shame, shame, shame—
the supremes singing
on the lewd radio

it’s not make it new—
it’s just c’mon baby, get
down and make me

her brain cells don’t—
open up like a dream
he sprains a boner

he tries to hold it—
back, not revealing
himself going spaz

but he can’t help it—
the tide pulls him down
it’s a desperate act

how a man gets off—
it’s different each time
fabled labyrinthine

spermy sustenance—
subterranean and
sophisticatedly male

there’s no stereotype—
it prowls down thru all
the layers of a goner

Chimes Street Journal VIII

“mudpies in the
sky of my eye”
—John Wieners,
July 22, The Journal of
John Wieners Is to Be
Called 707 Scott Street
For Billie Holiday

how can it be done—
life beneath the surface
face, gait, eyes…

street lights coming—
down thru the window
eccentric shadows

streetwalkers, perverts—
late business men, clerks,
tourists, college boyz

poet with a pale face—
stoned in his apartment
dressed like a girl

neighborhood laugher—
negro flash and glamour
the university district

cars circling down there—
constantly cruising for some
piece of prey, some dope

surreal southern fantasy—
deep south surviving down
there, on hands & knees

no doubt about it—
her very existence depends
on huey p. long’s dick

it rushes in with power—
old ghosts whispering smutty
prayers, distant hurrahs

there’s no consistency to it—
it’s the edge, reef of blue and
aqua marine lavender campus

Chimes Street Journal IX

“at night when
there’s only one eye”
—John Wieners,
July 22, The Journal of
John Wieners Is to Be
Called 707 Scott Street
For Billie Holiday

closets, garages, lofts—
crime crawls the street
it’s gone one eyeball

plantation life’s still here—
it never left the deep south
jefferson davis in drag

dressed as a woman—
to escape his cold yankee
captors, confederate drag

so much for dixie jive—
the nocturnal antebellum
dream seemed outta place

but the drag-act continued—
returning to haunt delta
bourbon burlesque times

living their dream at night—
dreaming it during the day
miss scarlet wised-up fast

blonde voodoo got down—
the down-low jungle dance
during the dinge diaspora

you can still hear it—
morse code from the goddess
jingle bells in the jungle

sitting on the front porch—
on the rotting verandah bored
reminiscing about phantoms

gone with the wind lies—
ghosts of miscegenal agonies
compulsively telling the story

Chimes Street Journal X

“what to do next?”
—John Wieners,
July 23, The Journal of
John Wieners Is to Be
Called 707 Scott Street
For Billie Holiday

and so she sits alone—
in the house with the
lights off, listening…

listening to the drums—
beating in her blood, dinge
jax on the radio

she feels it in the night—
the tempo of the evening
star, black venus over delta

it’s not the sea at night—
it isn’t the gulf of mexico
it’s not down my the levee

it’s down past the cane—
stretching like bamboo back
to the jungles of africa

it makes her blue—
mississippi delta dinge
mandingo sluggish flow

it makes her wanna—
be free as the evening
breeze and go somewhere

she feels her spirit—
moving thru the apartment
the young man in bed

she’s sucked him dry—
now she’s sobbing like a
whore dying for more

she’s addicted to it—
it’s flowing in her veins
oozing outta her boyfriend

dixie never really died—
it’s enslaved down there
black creole dixie dick

Chimes Street Journal XI

“waves lapped
at the pilings”
—John Wieners,
July 23, The Journal of
John Wieners Is to Be
Called 707 Scott Street
For Billie Holiday

the apartment house—
was on a hill at the end
of chimes street by campus

the hippies, ex-students—
called the little bunch of shacks
along chimes “cat fish row”

sometimes she heard—
waves lapping outside the
window like last night

other times she felt—
like an egyptian mummy
or a faggy rip van winkle

it all depended mostly—
on how much she smoked
how much she’d got him off

he was like liquid quicksand—
she’d sink deep inside him
each squirt sucked her down

the sweat on his thighs—
the way he wanted seconds
pulling his foreskin back

shooting his sinus mucous—
slimy down her fuckin throat
she liked the taste snotty

it was good together—
he treated her like his woman
she made him feel at home

why not be sensualist—
she even sucked his runny nose
caressing his black creole cock

a couple of semesters—
who knows how many pints
of creole cum inside her

she was queering quentin—
doing to herself what butchy
dalton ames tried to do

not jumping off the bridge—
not consumed with southern
virginity or caddy’s pussy

doing the down-low dinge—
doing what henry sutpen
did to bon the beautiful…

Chimes Street Journal XII

“a poem for
the storyteller”
—John Wieners,
July 23, The Journal of
John Wieners Is to Be
Called 707 Scott Street
For Billie Holiday

it was tres laissez-faire—
she had lots of paradise
on her hands back then

she painted a map—
of living africa with dark
living colors each day

mostly she hung around—
allen hall and the library
her english professor

he was very astute—
a scholar from brown
born in mobile alabama

she took all his classes—
she loitered beneath the
nostalgic wpa murals

she found solace with—
mostly faulkner’s novels
and yoknapatawpha lit

she published maudlin—
poems in the student
journal called “delta”

she rode a raft—
above the shallow gay
despairs of dinge love

a delta dilettante—
she squandered her
inheritance on whatever

she was very passive—
she waited for love to
come its way demurely

and jungle love did—
but savagely more dinge
than she expected

she was tres romantic—
she strolled highland drive
late at night stoned

Sunday, October 30, 2011

Chimes Street Journal



Chimes Street Journal II
__________________

Piquant Substance
Young Male Secrets
Passion for Rough Trade
Shorts of the Godz
Juicy Judgments
Miss Sodom & Gomorrah
Miss Titanic
Touchy Talisman
Queer Signature
_____________________

Piquant Substance

“Rejection of all other than
the Real Substance is a deity”
—John Wieners,
“6/21/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

what can she do now—
to get it and for how long…
just one more time?

lucky miss lollipop has—
lips that you can strap on
and ride that happy boy

that big blue vein—
down the side of his leg
blue heron, runny oyster?

Young Male Secrets

“the ‘where’ & the ‘how’
are open mysteries…”
—John Wieners,
“6/21/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

young male deities—
spoil her bad, she shuns the
day adulterated with lies

she slides among men—
accepted by the night and
permitted to suck cock

she tries not to deny—
that which she can’t ever
know about male secrets

Passion for Rough Trade

“all fire takes is a
spark from their sighs”
—John Wieners,
“6/21/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

she preoccupies herself—
with youngmale divinities
forgets the real world

all love takes its spark—
from moody thighs, all cum
flows with her tears

she suffers, swoons—
will her passion for young
males ever be quenched?

Shorts of the Godz

“his sleevecuffs
yielded perfume”
—John Wieners,
“6/21/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

she debases herself—
she’s a prisoner to love
she craves the secret

his dirty shorts—
yielding male perfume
spreading thru the night

when he cums to her—
she accepts it with bright
stars of heaven in her eyes

Juicy Judgments

“When Providence comes,
it causes judgment to
vanish immediately.”
—John Wieners,
“6/21/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

you can say that—
again, honey, she opines
dabbing her lips with Lysol

mother nature is a house—
with aftershocks like echoes
after the earthquake falls

it’s quite revealing when—
big stationary mountains move
with the speed of clouds

Miss Sodom & Gomorrah

“the punishment of
those who divulge.”
—John Wieners,
“6/21/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

love consumes her—
homoerotic agony swells,
engorgement consumes

when she discloses—
the secret of their queer
power, she'll pay for it

they turn her into salt—
like lot’s wife turning back
divulging what she's sucked

Miss Titanic

”True love is an
obligatory magnetic
force”
—John Wieners,
“6/21/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

her gayest love—
happens suddenly
and immediately

it distorts everything—
her feelings decay her
can she ever escape?

so suddenly—
she immediately finds
herself sinking

Touchy Talisman

“go on your path”
—John Wieners,
“6/21/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

conjuring up signs—
of his touchy talisman
his hoodoo voodoo smirk

affixing his signature—
and wearing it as amulet
on her pouty lips

deciphering him—
his treasury of secrets
ultra-male mysteries

Queer Signature

“my sig-
nature”
—John Wieners,
“6/21/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

she ponders it—
the male alphabet
of his night powers

male darkness—
seminal names and their
moody utterances

she mainlines him—
her man, his bulging
testicle eyeballs


Chimes Street Journal



Chimes Street Journal IV
____________________

Possession
A Journal
Plural Possession
Mardi Gras
Mistress of the Meat
____________________

Possession

“I am possessed”
—John Wieners,
“7/13/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

another long night—
spent in those slack hours
between typing this or that

she slips off into boredom—
oblivion, her eyes sinking
back into her head

burnt-out sockets empty—
writing needs a loverboy
but web of words is gone

A Journal

“a scene of its own”
—John Wieners,
“7/13/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

her head & mind—
run-down so that even
thought needs recharging

but sometimes queerly—
on its own for its own sake
gay words catapult back

images have lives—
of their own demeanor
they lurk, they smirk

Plural Possession

“I speak in plural”
—John Wieners,
“7/13/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

so there’s more—
than just one hand or one
voice or one image

it speaks pluralities—
lip-synching what’s getting
ménage-a-trois done


his legs & arms—
old as alabaster, eyes
ancient as the nile

Mardi Gras

“a belly full of goodies
for the Bayou King.”
—John Wieners,
“7/17/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

what else can poets do—
other than write poems
old words, new tempos

the dope addicts—
sell their asses on the street
politicians play ponzi games

she becomes who—
she's in bed with, down to

the last crummy little squirt

Mistress of Meat

“We awake to
chaos & desire”
—John Wieners,
“7/17/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

it chokes her throat—
puts tears in her eyes
but it’s all she can do

her mind works—
the way a poem reveals
itself unashamedly

she doesn't write—
the dark room writies
it's always been that way


Chimes Street Journal




Chimes Street Journal V
___________________________

Gay Heritage

“slim books are
our heritage”
—John Wieners,
“7/17/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

to nurture it—
all these years since
tiger town sixties ghetto

a sparse thing—
in terms of cutting corners
telling queer stories

she became who she was—
it could only be that way,


such a lazy ditzy queen
___________________

there’s this knot in her head—
and it aint breughel either
her face cracks mirrors

her poems aren’t much—
no big deal or anything much
worthwhile to others

no hallelujah salvations—
no poet laureate broadcasts
no anti-war rants & ravings
_____

she wrote alone—
for herself, yours truly,
didn't read what she wrote

there was no need for—
public readings unless it
was her beads being read

that’s why poetry—
was so useless, helplessly
impersonal as a blow job
_______________

she didn’t use it—
for anything practical other


than cocksucking memoirs

it just happened—
like ejaculations, wetdreams,
a kid's nocturnal emission

what could be more—
natural than that, surely
just a waste of time?
_____________________

a natural thing—
like breathing, pissing, shitting
cuming and dreaming

faggy & involuntary—
like miss proust suggested
tea, marmalade & boyz?

a violent dominatrix—
bent on black leather, high heels
whips to evoke jaded jive?
_________________

involuntary like language—
millions of moiling words out there
day-to-day crummy lives

the daily carnage—
bloody propaganda, powerbrokers
ponzi-esque corporate queens


later on that night—
she smokes a fat joint
rockets to the moon

Chimes Street Journal



Chimes Street Journal VI
__________________

Writing at Night
Class Reunion
Chicken
Huey P. Long Fieldhouse
__________________

Writing at Night

“the beauty of men
never disappears
but drives a blue car
through the stars”
—John Wieners,
“Two Years Later,”
Ace of Pentacles

keeping in touch—
something to do instead
of just staring at the wall

playing the game—
of shadow loneliness but
without the politics

cruising downtown—
dirty thoughts behind the

state capitol, a cute guy

The State Capitol

“I was young once”
—John Wieners,
“Helen Go Mother Beth,”
Behind the State Capitol

it’s so good to be—
miss kingfish again, letting
it happen its own way

thirties revolutions—
morals collapsing, all those
WPA revelations

behind the capitol—
louisiana's pouty tomb
a cute young kingfish

Chicken

“pleasant chicanery”
—John Wieners,
“Understood Disbelief
in Paganism, Lies, Heresy,”
Behind the State Capitol

tedious queer mysteries—
salamandered viscosities
negligent debauched lusts

sometimes when they—
look down at you, dear,
it's really you looking up

dark kid from busstop—
your impertinent lips
the usual melodrama...

Huey P. Long Fieldhouse

“that permission”
—John Wieners,
“Ma’s Deck Chairs,”
Behind the State Capitol

it’s nice to feel—
these same masculine things
hanging around the pool

nude in the showers—
pulling the curtain behind
her, with them inside

one thing leads—
to another and things
get down & ugly nice


Saturday, October 29, 2011

Chimes Street Poets & Artists



Marie Laurencin
“Apollinaire and His Friends”
1909

Chimes Street Poets & Artists
__________________

Forget It
Revisiting Chimes
The 5 Perfections
Chimes Street Apartment
Apollinaire and His Friends
Greta Garbo
Charting the Progress
Unraveling It
Show Me Its Face
All the Lies
The Dance
__________________

Forget It

“I must forget
how to write”
—John Wieners,
“Saturday, 3/8/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

she tries to forget—
how to write, unlearning
what they taught her

last night she dreamed—
nobody taught her anything
she was free as a bird

even with dreaming tho—
she tries not to succumb
to love completely

Revisiting Chimes

“I must learn not—
to write, instead watch
with my 5 senses”
—John Wieners,
“Saturday, 3/8/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

it’s all sorta sad—
that she’s gotta fight it
but romance is that way

maybe someday—
she’ll love it all the way
these passing dayz

maybe someday—
déjà vu wordage oozing
thru her fingers

The 5 Perfections

"the 5 perfections that
are the 5 hindrances"
—John Wieners,
“Saturday, 3/8/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

she looks in the mirror—
another day ruined
ennui kills the day

she decides to return—
to behind the state capitol
for her class reunion

a mirror cracks—
her hands get swollen
the devil comes back again

Chimes Street Apartment

“there’s a strange
man-boy in bed”
—John Wieners,
“Saturday, 3/9/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

tiger town at night—
not much different than
way back when…

same desultory ache tho—
this dumpy little side street
once her hippie home?

the state capitol loomed—
behind it down on her knees
so tres gay & doomed

Apollinaire and His Friends

"Oh for the days of
Marie Laurencin”
—John Wieners,
“Sunday, 3/9/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

apollinaire in the center—
picasso & his dog to the left
two of picasso’s mistresses

marie laurencin paints—
another delightfully coy
insouciant portrait

miss wieners along with—
miss spicer & miss mcclure
there at big eric’s place

Greta Garbo

“It is poetry day again”
“Sunday, 3/17/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

ray charles on piano—
somewhere in another room
the window fills with light

last night she thought—
she was greta garbo for one
instant, then she was gone

then she felt like marlene—
dietrich this time all alone
blue angel voodoo love

Charting the Progress

“we contain the souls
of our ancestors”
—John Wieners,
“Sunday, 3/17/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

chimes street edge—
college campus exiles then
all those young hippies gone

she didn’t care much—
for charting the progress
of her lost soul back then

too much envy, disgust—
her gay psyche working
overtime just to survive

Unraveling It

“transmitted to us at birth”
—John Wieners,
“Sunday, 3/17/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

unraveling it now—
seeing all the str8t snags
and hetero syndromes

it’s not very easy—
who wants to be diligent
with one’s own doom?

and yet here she was—
poking around, perusing
gay flashback poetics?

Show Me His Face

“we all know how death
travels these days”
—John Wieners,
“Sunday, 3/17/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

tonight they’re dancing—
the dance of death all over
mardi gras big easy

see all the queens—
doing their cute pirouettes
their little spike shoes?

and those butchy boyz—
at lafitte's, crowding close
cum flowing on the floor

All the Lies

“you think you’ve
seen it all”
—John Wieners,
“Sunday, 3/17/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

she gathers faces—
old pictures from her heart
all her past lives

she charts her progress—
how each action unrolled
with or without her will

so that each time—
had its own poetic to
telling all the lies

The Dance

“the human voice is blue”
—John Wieners,
“Sunday, 5/10/59”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

fast as she could write it—
the list of the living dead
gone, baby, gone

gone ginsberg, creeley—
wieners, orlovsky, lavigne
kerouac, cassidy, burroughs

beatniks sliding thru—
rooms of 50’s drug addicts
turning into 60’s hippies

Cultural Affairs in Baton Rouge



Cultural Affairs in Baton Rouge

___________________

Deep South
Baton Rouge
Fellow Poets
Again Camp
Bedrooms
Quickie Poem
Her Boyfriend
Black and Blue
Black Opal
Desperate Birth
Ex-Lover
Serpentine
Jouissance
Monday Blowjob
Naïve Dumb Trick
Hidden Flesh
Young Black Magician
The Stain
___________________

Deep South

“those tropical songs
call me into the south”
—John Wieners,
“San Francisco, 1958,”
Cultural Affairs in Boston

it was all sexy—
tropical lush delta
heat and speed

embracing sex—
before her eyes
voice of big easy

rotten flesh—
pin-pricks along her
nelly spine

Baton Rouge

“denied long enough”
—John Wieners,
“San Francisco, 1958,”
Cultural Affairs in Boston

more than just—
the usual rather
tame translationese

not just “big stick”—
but rather more like
“big red veiny dick”

prefix “baton”—
plus rosy pink thick
rampant mexicali rose

Fellow Poets

“I can do nothing but write”
—John Wieners, “Second
Communique for the Heads,”
Cultural Affairs in Boston

she doesn’t much like—
her fellow fag poets
they’re a bit too vampiric

she prefers to give head—
to guyz whose pubes


smolder in their pants

she sticks her tongue—
into live wall sockets
up tight assholes

Again Camp

“Again camp”
—John Wieners,
“Poem #238,”
Cultural Affairs
in Boston

there she goes again—
camping it up like the
queen she truly is

chicken in a basket—
living dead zombie meat
boyz stoned in bed

her chimes apartment—
where she entertains
cross-eyed boyfriends

Bedrooms

“talking of bedrooms”
—John Wieners,
“For the Mind of
38 Grove Street
Third Front,”
Cultural Affairs
in Boston

the warmth of his—
lips, her hand down
along his thigh

playing with his—
pubes while they’re
getting high

his warm cum—
douching her mascara
quickie spluge facial

Quickie Poem

“paradise in
their pockets”
—John Wieners,
“Peyote Poem,”
Cultural Affairs
in Boston

she comes up—
gasping for air after
going down low

deep underwater—
strange creatures glide
hammer-head sharks

then she dives down—
again into his pubes
a whale in his thigh

Her Boyfriend

“man-pride”
—John Wieners,
“Untitled,”
Cultural Affairs
in Boston

he gets her bad—
down on her knees
elbows on the floor

but she gets even—
now it’s her turn to
get him with her dildo

fucks him real slow—
the vibrator on high,
nails him all the way

Black and Blue

“if love be dark”
—John Wieners,
“Bet,” Cultural
Affairs in Boston

if love be dark—
than love be dinge
licorice and pink

if love be dark—
jet black & uncut
peel it back, baby

if love be dark—
her lips black and
blue, that’s why…

Black Opal

“one blinking light”
—John Wieners,
“Ancient Blue Star,”
Cultural Affairs in Boston

sapphires are nice—
diamonds, red rubies
and green emeralds

but when she ogle—
it’s black opal that
gets her attention

slick shiny sheen—
purplish black serene
ancient african star

Desperate Birth

“desperate birth”
—John Wieners,
“Where Fled,” Cultural
Affairs in Boston

night nurtures love—
desperate births stuffed
down her fucking throat

despair the wry stuff—
that she swallows like her
seminal daily bread

does doom ejaculate—
does cum walk on 2 legs
does it reincarnate inside?

Ex-Lover

“nervous tonight”
—John Wieners,
“You Do Not Come,”
Cultural Affairs in Boston

she’s nervous tonight—
he’s with somebody else
wishes he were dead

she never would’ve—
thought that way even
last weekend so fine

but now it’s too late—
his unspeakable handsome
face smeared with lust

Serpentine

“we pass the pipe
of Mariweedje”
—John Wieners,
“A Prose Poem,”
Cultural Affairs in Boston

they don’t smoke—
they scorch and get it on
she seeks oral oblivion

her lips cling with a—
desperate tenacity to his
right swollen testicle

like a water moccasin—
with its head cut off
he coils & uncoils himself

Jouissance

“you know him?”
—John Wieners,
“Joy,” Cultural
Affairs in Boston

jouissance is french—
for joy which is a thing
called lamark bourgeois

he cums in gold—
in a green leather case
expensive male perfume

his creole cum—
simply drives her crazy
jizzy jouissance

Monday Blowjob

“mottled sheen”
—John Wieners,
“Monday Sunrise,”
Cultural Affairs in Boston

red glow on his cheeks—
he’s so healthy and alive
it’s sickening to her

royal family jewels—
smearing her lips again
burnishing the bruises

a renaissance youth—
she works hard to corrupt
into abject helplessness

Naïve Dumb Trick

“it’s better than junk”
—John Wieners,
“Jive,” Cultural
Affairs in Boston

who’d have guessed—
it would come down to this
doing the whole gym team?

it’s better than junk—
the toughness of young
dumb naïve jocks in heat

the stupider the better—
she settles for nothing less
than blowing built retards

Hidden Flesh

“your flesh hid”
—John Wieners,
“On the Photograph
of William Carlos Williams,”
Cultural Affairs in Boston

does dinge matter—
to others like it does to her
behind her sunglasses?

biting her lips—
dinge remains unplayed
its words haven’t been heard

underground files—
the beauty of dark men
down where roots grow thick

Young Black Magician

“storm to come”
—John Wieners,
“Steve Magellanstraits,”
Cultural Affairs in Boston

young black magician—
come outta the secret night
and let her know when

sit on her sofa and tell—
her secrets of the dark sea
black serpent on the mantel

push her hard in bed and—
show her sluggish current
of inky storms to come

The Stain

“the stain still
on my face”
—John Wieners,
“Memories of You,”
Cultural Affairs in Boston

how can she face—
her brother who she blew
when he was a chicken?

how can she face—
her mother who prays
every night for her?

how can she face—
herself in the mirror
lips twisted with love?

Friday, October 28, 2011

Unpublished Gay Sketches



Unpublished Gay Sketches
__________________

The Violet Quip
Str8t Drag (Staircase)
The Nuisance
Sherwood Anderson’s Son
Vulgar Verdigrised Visage
_________________________

The Violet Quip

“uncoupling desire
from representation”
—David Bergman,
The Violet Hour: The Violet Quill
and the Making of Gay Culture

she might not—
have had the courage
to continue writing her
Novel, my dears

if it hadn’t been—
for the encouraging
gay quips of her writers’
group, the violet quip

a quip here—
oh dear me, a quip there
so like some mysterious
lavender pimpernel

all those years—
telling the same old story
smoking a cigarette after sex
staring at the ceiling

coming out quips—
back then long ago,
the gay closet seems so
so banal, so boring now

Str8t Drag
—for Richard Burton
and Rex Harrison

“I feel like a whore
at a choir boy's orgy”
—Staircase (1969)

most people—
both gay & str8t
simply hated it

“staircase” the flick—
such a failure, dears,
the critics opined

but to me—
there’s nothing more
charming, endearing

than a pair—
of str8t actors
doing drag

not gayz—
queens ascending a
sequined staircase

like in the—
beginning of the
tres gay movie

but 2 male actors—
known to be hetero
married, tres straight

even their flaws—
imitating fags
so entertaining

the opening scene—
two hairdressers doing
each other’s hair

the exquisite flip—
of the hairdryer cord
up over the lover

the sepulchral—
effeminate sitting
down in the chair

the lovely white—
bedroom sheet
clipped at the neck

the dainty mock—
seriousness of being
a gay hairdresser

The Nuisance

“We, of course,
were popular in the
neighborhood because
of the game”
—William Spratling,
The File on Spratling
(Autobiography)

extra points for pinging—
negro nuns on the ass
with our lewd bb-gun

zeroing in on victims—
from the balcony, the
tourists great fun

but anderson’s son—
made a nuisance of
himself dontchaknow

Sherwood Anderson’s Son

up there in spratling’s—
apartment, gay adolescent
sexual rowdiness so rampant

vieux carré homoeroticism—
thanks to natalie vivian scott’s
french quarter renaissance

but young bob anderson—
could hardly be kept away
difficult to get rid of

hardly a child, my dear—
more like a raging teenage
erection with two legs

he kept interrupting—
faulkner’s typing at his
novels, it got rather tiring

so finally one day—
spratling and faulkner
got the kid drunk, stoned

Vulgar Verdigrised Visage

pulled his pants down—
and painted his little peter
tres verdigrised green

so drunk & stoned, passed out—
spratling painting the kid’s huge
penis green,

then shoving him—
out into vieux carré street
nude for all the tourists to see

shocked negro nuns—
tres gawking aghast by it all
swishing back to church

Creole Sketches for Times Picayune



Creole Sketches for Times Picayune
___________________

Creole Sketch
Creole City
Creole Mornings
The Creole Way
Vieux Carré Sketch
Stairway to Heaven
Lonely Creole Kid
___________________

Creole Sketch

“beneath sparrows
delirious in mimosa”
—William Faulkner,
“Out of Nazareth,”
New Orleans Sketches

falling in love with the—
young creole kid was like
big easy dying splendor

it had been going on—
for a long time, a sort of
left bank creole version

loving him was like—
having paris in my
hip pocket, my palm

Creole City

“My God,” he said,
clutching me, “Look
at that face.”
—William Faulkner,
“Out of Nazareth,”
New Orleans Sketches

the old creole city—
had a bizarre romantic
fascination with her

it was still the most—
foreign, most european
of all american cities

its strangeness, charm—
stood in quiet opposition
to the rest of new orleans

Creole Mornings

“wheat slumberous
beneath a blue sky”
—William Faulkner,
“Out of Nazareth,”
New Orleans Sketches

there were streetcars—
named desire and young
creole boyz with big dicks

every morning she sat—
on the balcony with a
drink and a joint

a knock on the door—
it was the creole kid
who came to fuck her

The Creole Way

“beneath a blue sky”
—William Faulkner,
“Out of Nazareth,”
New Orleans Sketches

the creole way—
had a way for every day
but not for heroic deeds

for 250 years now—
leisurely intermingling
race, habits, customs

vieux carré pastiche—
so many different cultures
in him deep inside her

Vieux Carré Sketch

the seedy elegance—
perpendicular grace
and cracked plaster

the unkempt facades—
the katrina wreckage
from vieux carré rooftops

the smell for miles—
stench of rotting ruins
a city going down

Staircase to Heaven

“a desecration”
—William Faulkner,
“Out of Nazareth,”
New Orleans Sketches

steps on the stairs—
languorous, manhandled
magnolia petal

light-skinned like her—
a young man passing
for whitey mandingo

a decayed lily look—
reserved masculine
temporary vanity

Lonely Creole Kid

“young face brooded”
—William Faulkner,
“Out of Nazareth,”
New Orleans Sketches

a damaged lily—
his dark bedroom
eyes full of despair

lost his girlfriend—
full of that ancient
male sorrow for love

he looks away—
a wilted lily who
trembles for me


Thursday, October 27, 2011

Mandingo Diary


Robert Mapplethorpe, Man in Polyester Suit

Mandingo Diary
____________

Prelude
Mulatto Freshman
Shocked Roommate
Kingfish Cocksucker
Closet Colored Boy
Mandingo Boy
Bad Seed
Dinge Queen
Creole Kid
Delta Lit

__________________

Prelude

the sprained ankle—
that wouldn’t heal, the
pain, swelling

the weakness—
in my knees when
i saw mapplethorpe’s

man in polyester suit—
the injury i felt, so
afro-american vernacular

so ashamed of dinge—
yet my gay size queen
sensibility yearned for it

Mulatto Freshman

i was beating off—
in the freshman dorm
i needed it bad

i couldn’t help it—
i had to get off so
i skipped classes

my roommate—
came back early
thru the locked door

just as i was—
spluging my brains
out on the wall

i grabbed a towel—
limped the best way
i could to the showers

Shocked Roommate

“jeeze!!!" i heard—
my roommate say to all
the guyz in the dorm

“denny’s gotta big—
black 10” fuckin prick
a big nigger dick!!!”

all them wanted to—
see it, i was so awfully
embarrassed, ashamed

all of them size-queens—
for dinge dick, it was so
very tacky & lame

now they all knew—
the awful dinge truth
i be a mulatto boy!!!

Kingfish Cocksucker

i was more than—
embarrassed, i had to
drop outta school

discrimination—
still ruled the delta
bourbon university

next year things—
changed & integration
kicked into campus life

but still i knew—
the shame of guyz in
the dorm staring at me

that’s how i ended up—
in tiger town in a dumpy
chimes street apartment

Closet Colored Boy

my beautiful redhead—
mother had pale skin,
freckles, hollywood looks

her first husband—
suspected it since her
birth certificate was gone

it was sealed away—
by the adoption court and
something was hidden

mother didn’t wanna—
know, all the records had
supposedly been burned

then i was born—
like bon the beautiful
and the secret was out!!!!

Mandingo Boy

it all came out then—
the court records unsealed
then a nasty divorce

like ike mccaslin—
the ledgers didn’t lie
i was a mandingo boy

mommy dearest had—
a nigger in the woodpile
dinge shame in the closet

and it came out in me—
the look on my father’s face
when he saw a black penis

the same look on sutpen—
on my roommate’s face in
the dorm, shock of shocks!!!

Bad Seed

living with it—
hiding it, finally it
just had to come out

young adam be black—
the same with cain, able
moses be black too

black osiris—
they worshipped him
nile luxor temples

black jesus—
up there on the cross
bloody loincloth hard

original sin—
plunging me deep into
male miscegenal guilt

Dinge Queen

it was bad enough—
trying to pass whitey
but i was queer too

i got it from both—
blacks & whites for
being who i was

i got turned on by—
young black janitors
who had my number

by sweaty dudes—
with machetes working
in the cane fields

i got to know cute—
muscular hospital guyz
who were orderlies

Creole Kid

i met this kid—
he was a cute creole
guy who lived next door

his girlfriend left him—
he started hanging out
with me, smoking dope

his dark complexion—
came from an old family
vieux carré aristocracy

that’s when i found out—
about creole “free blacks”
during the civil war

he was smart & smooth—
like pecan pralines and
he loved to french-kiss

Delta Lit

pretty soon we were—
living together, getting
high, getting off

my black shame gone—
black creole, black cajun,
negro guyz were in

that’s when i became—
a yoknapatawpha devotee
delta bourbon lit for me

miss faulkner my guide—
she knew the gay cognoscenti
down in the old big easy

absalom was the key—
then moses, light in august
all of delta lit came to me



Monday, October 24, 2011

Poetics



Poetics
__________________

“I try to write the
most embarrassing
thing I can think of”
—John Wieners,
Cultural Affairs in Boston

she recommends—
contrapunctus as valuable
exercise for the poet

putting yourself—
on copilot in terms of
your gay poetics, dear

then translating yourself—
with another queen’s
working method…

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Chimes Street Poets & Artists



Marie Laurencin
“Apollinaire and His Friends”
1909

Chimes Street Poets & Artists
__________________

Forget It
Revisiting Chimes
The 5 Perfections
Chimes Street Apartment
Apollinaire and His Friends
Greta Garbo
Charting the Progress
Unraveling It
Show Me Its Face
All the Lies
The Dance
__________________

Forget It

“I must forget
how to write”
—John Wieners,
“Saturday, 3/8/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

she tries to forget—
how to write, unlearn
what they’d taught her

last night she dreams—
nobody taught her how
to do that kind of thing

but even dreaming—
she tries not to let it
fuck her up completely

Revisiting Chimes

“I must learn not—
to write, instead watch
with my 5 senses”
—John Wieners,
“Saturday, 3/8/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

it’s all sorta sad—
that she’s gotta fight it
but time is that way

maybe someday—
she’ll love it with all
these passing dayz

and sure enough—
déjà vu wordage later
thru my fingers

The 5 Perfections

"the 5 perfections that
are the 5 hindrances"
—John Wieners,
“Saturday, 3/8/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

she looks in the mirror—
another day ruined
hangovers kill the day

she decides to return—
to the huey p. long campus
for her class reunion

the mirror cracks—
her hands are swollen
the devil makes her do it

Chimes Street Apartment

“there’s a strange
man-boy in bed”
—John Wieners,
“Saturday, 3/9/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

tiger town at night—
not much different than
way back when…

same desultory ache—
how could this side street
have been once her home?

but then it wasn’t home—
even back then when she felt
so hippie gay doomed

Apollinaire and His Friends

"Oh for the days of
Marie Laurencin”
—John Wieners,
“Sunday, 3/9/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

apollinaire in the center—
picasso & his dog to the left
two of picasso’s mistresses

marie laurencin paints—
another delightfully coy
insouciant portrait

miss wieners along with—
miss spicer & miss mcclure
at big eric’s place

Greta Garbo

“It is poetry day again”
“Sunday, 3/17/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

ray charles on piano—
somewhere in another room
he fills the window with light

last night she thought—
she say greta garbo for one
instant, then she was gone

she felt greta garbo again—
this time alone in every
blood, nerve & brain cell

Charting the Progress

“we contain the souls
of our ancestors”
—John Wieners,
“Sunday, 3/17/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

chimes street the edge—
of college campus exiles
all those young hippies gone

she didn’t care much—
for charting the progress
of her lost soul back then

so much envy, disgust—
her gay psyche working
overtime just to survive

Unraveling It

“transmitted to us at birth”
—John Wieners,
“Sunday, 3/17/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

unraveling it now—
seeing all the str8t snags
and hetero syndromes

it’s not very easy—
who wants to be diligent
with one’s own doom?

and yet here she is—
poking around, perusing
her flashback poetics?

Show Me Its Face

“we all know how death
travels these days”
—John Wieners,
“Sunday, 3/17/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

tonight they’re dancing—
the dance of death all over
america sea to shining sea

see all the ballerinas—
doing their cute pirouettes
their little spike shoes?

and those butchy boyz—
at football games, hold that
tiger… and then hold me!

All the Lies

“you think you’ve
seen it all”
—John Wieners,
“Sunday, 3/17/58”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

it gathers faces—
and pictures of the heart
from our lives

it charts the progress—
how each action unrolls
with or without our will

so that each of us—
has their own poetic
how we tell all the lies

The Dance

“the human voice is blue”
—John Wieners,
“Sunday, 5/10/59”
The Journal of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

fast as I can write it—
the list of the living gone
over to the dead

gone ginsberg, creeley—
wieners, orlovsky, lavigne
kerouac, cassidy, burroughs

beatniks slide thru—
rooms of 50’s drug addicts
turning into 60’s hippies



Chimes Street Journal



Chimes Street Journal III
__________________

Queer Oblivion
Conjure Gone Bad
His Record
Gay Revelations
The Rod of Aaron
Runny Godhead
Equus Equinox
Without Words
___________________

Queer Oblivion

“annihilation is complete”
—John Wieners,
“6/21/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

her loverboy lets her—
suck all his sins outta him
who can blame her?

he sends her down—
the primrose path and
sticks her full of needles

knowing him every day—
carries her down closer and
closer to oblivion

Conjure Gone Bad

“I have loved him”
—John Wieners,
“6/21/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

she's got the blues—
and they won’t go away
little boy blue come blow...

usually conjuration—
yields the fruit of some
kind of exquisite treasure

but miss lollipop be—
blue & full of pain tonight
her lover done left her

His Record

“She wears
a black bra”
—John Wieners,
“6/21/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

he’s got a long record—
4 arrests, 2 wives and his
father in sacramento prison

but she can’t complain—
even tho he wrecked her car
in a “total” three-car collision

she bailed him outta jail—
when he got arrested for
hit & run, still she loves him

Gay Revelations

“Let this be the poem”
—John Wieners,
“6/21/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

she accepted all these—
revelations as letters of
some divine alphabet

the letter “m” for—
mafia murder & her lover’s
miscellaneous mayhem

“m” for my oh my—
mulatto mandingo man
surely manhandles me bad

The Rod of Aaron

“the golden rod”
—John Wieners,
“6/21/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

the black prince of the—
spheres certainly reveals
the servant on her knees

it takes lots of k-y—
to write a book of poems
no end to glory-holing

the flash and spike—
rod of aaron, writhing

snake at pharaoh’s feet

Runny Godhead

“Delectable heat”
—John Wieners,
“6/21/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

boisterous badboy flesh—
ravishing in the chimes street
night, runny godheads

she doesn't waste time—
no hoity-toity crummy spiels
she drains the kid dry

delectable young meat—
devoured by her famished
queer grieving prissy lips

Equus Equinox

“O radix cordis mei”
—John Wieners,
“6/21/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

his male heart’s rose—
petulant pink prepucial
el perfecto petals of love

pealing it back—
his young cheesy equus

thoroughbred foreskin

his forehead pierced by—
phallic third eye godhead delta

boner bulging eyeball

Without Words

“How can I write”
—John Wieners,
“6/28/59,” The Journal
of John Wieners
707 Joy Street

how can she write about—
somewhere she's never been
like bashō’s japan?

how can she talk about—
a frog jumping in a pond
when she's a city-slicker?

without words—

or a chimes street boyfriend

what's the use of it?

John Wieners Interview



John Wieners Interview
__________________

Charley Shively

“fashionable to use
dreams in poetry”
—Charley Shively,
Gay Sunshine Interviews

how important—
are your dreams for
your poems?

they seize—
the waking day
i transpose them

nothing like a young—
guy’s nocturnal emission
while he’s wide awake

Memories

“broken-hearted memories”
—Charley Shively,
Gay Sunshine Interviews

did you do a lot—
of nights on the town
in san francisco?

i’d change my—
rectal suppository
every once in awhile

like for a hot—
raunchy night on
the town so gay

The Audience

“and your audience?”
—Charley Shively,
Gay Sunshine Interviews

i’m a whim of farouk—
a rimbaud dumped on
the fucking miami beach

audiences are pigs—
beauty parlor whores
miami beach tourists

i’m a hotel maid—
john baptist’s head in
a bedpan bleary-eyed

Chimes Chinoiserie



Chimes Chinoiserie
__________________

Strange Lips
Tricking on Chimes
Window Shopping
A Tricky Knot
Wrapped Up in Fog
A Big Slut
Louche Rendezvous
Trapped Thing
Go Down Daughter
A Life Lost
Sunday Morning
Bette Davis
__________________

Strange Lips

“strange with women”
—John Wieners,
“Strange,” Ace of Pentacles

it’s so strange with women—
even with ardent fag hags
when they find it out

that you’re a fag—
and you suck dick rather
than doing cunninglingus

they don’t kiss you—
not anymore on the lips
those cocksucking lips

Tricking on Chimes

“and like stars
fell on Alabama”
—John Wieners,
“Long Nook,” Ace of Pentacles

so I took him upstairs—
into the apartment there
on chimes by campus

i got him undressed—
his waist was thin and
his armpits were shaved

the traffic down below—
his wrists & angles tied-up
to the brass bed posts

and when the stars fell—
some landed on alabama
others on my lips

Window Shopping

“they open by themselves”
—John Wieners,
“Windows,” Ace of Pentacles

my apartment on chimes—
its windows open out onto the
street, some scraggly magnolias

some reddish ridges—
without grass next to cars
parked by the side of campus

it’s a vieux carre night—
looking out after a game
in the huey p. long stadium

young drunks hang around—
outside the tavern & pool hall
some of them are cute

i leave the window open—
it’s a picture window with words
poems as poems as flesh

There aren’t any connections—
And yet I’m hooked to the humid
night who needs a telephone?

the windows open themselves—
one of them leans on shadows
instead of daylight sundials

the tower crumbles down—
into the street, his armpits make
me faint in the maroon moonlite

A Tricky Knot

“there’s a knot”
—John Wieners,
“Windows,”
Ace of Pentacles

she’s got this tricky knot—
in the middle of her forehead
she can’t think when it’s tight

she’s tried to untie it—
but it only happens in bed
with a real cute number

it won’t go away—
until she gets the guy off
could breughel paint her?

there in venice—
in the bottom of a lurid
gondola with tadzio?

Wrapped Up in Fog

“with the mist miles
out on the Pacific Ocean”
—John Wieners,
“Wrapped Up in an
Indian Blanket,”
Ace of Pentacles

willa cather must’ve known—
her book of prairies and love
poems for spanish johnny

gertrude stein back in sf—
no there in oakland there
imogen cunningham photo

chimes morning coffee—
my faulkner class or stay
in bed with the kid?

A Big Slut

“Lizard under the stone”
—John Wieners,
“At Big Sur,”
Ace of Pentacles

night of the iguana—
lizard in bed tonight
slithering down his leg

lizard tied up tight—
in the hammock night
pepe, pedro & ava

lizard under the sheets—
birds in the morning light
my mouth full of pubes

Louche Rendezvous

“lovers say goodbye”
—John Wieners,
“At Big Sur,”
Ace of Pentacles

getting up early—
a dog barks just once
down the block

a morning class—
there in allen hall
going down on moses

lovers say goodbye—
without words their eyes
on the rising sun

Trapped Thing

“Gasping for breath”
—John Wieners,
“A Poem for Trapped Things”
Ace of Pentacles

he’s got a blue flame—
down there where it bends
and wants to come out

he closes his eyes—
living for the instant when
he shoots his brains out

a red kimono—
spread amidst debris
extending his antennae

an ugly uncut larvae—
knowing it’s a butterfly
he’s weak in the knees

a giant worm in bed—
a caterpillar chrysalis cock
so tenuous, so fine

smoking a cigarette—
pulling invisible strings
he won’t open his eyes

i do him all morning—
oozing his blue diamonds
down my throat

Go Down Daughter

“go down daughter”
—John Wieners,
“The Waning of the
Harvest Moon,”
Ace of Pentacles

go down daughter—
her heart tells her blue
time for another blow-job

sunset, light in august—
she’s got a big daddy waiting
sprawled there in bed

it’s time to rob heaven—
time to rob the grocery store
hunger makes her lips ache

she needs to plug it in—
her tongue into a light socket
up his nice tight asshole

A Life Lost

“the same pauses”
—John Wieners,
“For Marion,”
Ace of Pentacles

just seeing him—
sometimes on the quad
outside the library

sweeping away—
all the connections in
her heart like the tide

brushing her aside—
like dust or simply dirt
smirking at her hopes

Sunday Morning

“once he was here”
—John Wieners,
“An Anniversary of Death,”
Ace of Pentacles

he was capable of loving—
them all with sweet patience
but their hearts were blind

each sunday at church—
take a right at highland drive
he’s there nailed on a cross

smoking a cigarette—
in the glare of empty air
looking down at them

Bette Davis

“What a dump!”
—Bette Davis,
Beyond the Forest (1949)

my eyes were worn out—
from years of unrequited love
when bette honked her horn

it was the imperatrice herself—
a nine star circle of dominion
hovering over her divine head

the crown of heaven askew—
smoking a cigarette & ready to
claw anybody’s eyes out

a nelly eunuch fanning her—
a scepter, cross and globe on
the cadillac floor, smirking

she had a moustache harelip—
and a whip in her left hand
a bottle of gin in her purse

something was afoot, my dears—
a waft of perfumed sperm caught
my devoted quivering nostrils

her limo mandingo chauffeur—
was simply dinge divoon, my dears
he could drive more than a cadillac

all of hollywood’s bitch queens—
were gathered behind her cape,
this description is inadequate

Friday, October 21, 2011

Hotel Dixie



Hotel Dixie
__________________

Hotel Dixie

State Capitol at Night
Femme et poupée
Pulitzer Prize Winner
The Moviegoer
Walker Percy
State Capitol Boasts
Hotel for the Dead
Old Tricks Never Die
Pastiche Portrait
____________________

Hotel Dixie

“Sameness flummoxed stars,
sullen, storm-cloud effects
above taquerias and
massage parlors.”—Wayne
Koestenbaum, Hotel Theory

hotel dixie has plenty of cute cocoa boyz—
something sweet for when lana feels rather
sulky at nights, the concierge smirks

lana’s big smegma lips smeared with—
gangster desert love somewhat more slutty
than director douglas sirk wants to explore

lana prefers a nice dry double-martini—
when she’s discussing her hoodlum boyfriend
from las vegas, about how big his gun was

State Capitol at Night

“Postcards, 3 for 25
or 2 for 50, some t0
cents each”
—John Wieners,
“A Different Momentum,”
Behind the State Capitol

she likes this one postcard—
it supplies her with sepia memories
those huey p. long blowjob dayz

slow cinematic flashbacks—
her snaky-headed medusa memory
writhing beneath art deco skyscraper

deadpan, of course, down there—
on her knees grabbing any opportunity
to seize a creole kid with a big dick

Femme et poupée

”somewhat wanton”
—John Wieners,
“Second Poem for Agnes
Varda’s Plastic Walk-Up,”
Behind the State Capitol

suddenly a long distance call—
reportage on how a blood bath
is erupting in a biarritz bathroom

posthumorously flabbergasted—
she peremptorily straightens
out her chic odalisque profile

a rather alarming spectacle—
barbara hutton busted by campus cops
for soliciting in the allen hall tearoom

Pulitzer Prize Winner

“close to know
this, I suppose”
—John Wieners,
“A Different Momentum,”
Behind the State Capitol

she was rather infamous—
times-picayune pulitzer bigtime
baby with a vieux carré condo

her cheesy big easy noir fame—
gazing down from her wrought-iron
balcony at the unmanageable hordes

tourist onlookers drunken desperation—
seeking some kind of southern decadent
solace for their second-hand genealogies

The Moviegoer

“kindled embrace
of past observation”
—John Wieners,
“R & R Sack,” Behind
the State Capitol

she can’t go to those old—
movie theaters anymore because
the peasant bouquets choke her

she feels like she’s drowning—
hippopotamus victim sliding down
into a river of congolese ennui

hollywood’s once joyous, rich—
sumptuousness seems so lame now
past boudoir ecstasies so gauche

Walker Percy

“I am tormented
by the memory”
—John Wieners,
“For What Times Sleep,”
Behind the State Capitol

she taught a semester or two—
depressed, desultory, unhappy
like binx bolling in “moviegoer”

she had an office in allen hall—
appointments with her revolved
around why her father killed himself

why her mother drove off a bridge—
maybe that’s why binx bolling’s aunt
seems so “lanterns on the levee” gay*

*William Alexander Percy, a lawyer
from lawyer, planter, and poet from
Greenville, Mississippi who adoped
Walker Percy after his father’s suicide.

State Capitol Boasts
Hotel for the Dead


“rates are fixed”
—John Wieners,
“Hong Kong Boasts
a Hotel for Dead,”
Behind the State Capitol

nestled among the steel—
and glass rooms of the kingfish
skyscraper sits the dixie hotel

all the residents are dead—
nothing new to most politicians
waiting to resurrect once again

the capitol coffins-home servers—
as a temporary resting place for the
living dead until the next time

Old Tricks Never Die

“that guy in the state house”
—John Wieners,
“For What Times Sleep,”
Behind the State Capitol

most rooms aren’t numbered—
names like “longevity room” or
“room of quietude” exist instead

so very haunting to know that—
some of the more undecipherable
occupants are my old tricks

these were the horsy having-been—
over-ridden young hustler boyz
a bring-down thinking about them

Pastiche Portrait

“when no words come”
—John Wieners,
“Hiatus,” Behind the
State Capitol

resting in her pastiche pillow—
film noir dayz that make her blue
it’s all she can possibly do

smokes in bed leaning—
back against soft pillows with
peacock designs, golden swans

writing poems all morning—
sipping tea, letting dragon lilies
snap when they're in a foul mood


Thursday, October 20, 2011

Baby Boy III



BABY BOY III

FRONT YARD.

(Silva and Rock are sitting there in the pickup truck. They sit a little formally and stiffly and wait for Archie, who comes barreling out of the house, and up to the pickup.)

Archie: Ya don’t have to say a word. A little bird already told me you’d be bringing those 27 wagons full of cotton straight to my door, and I want you to know that you’re a very lucky fellow.

Silva (dryly): Yeah, how come?

Archie: Well! Come on out of that truck and have some coffee. I just happen to be in a position to hold back all the other orders and give you top priority. Yes sir, yes indeed!

Silva: What’s your price?

Archie: Well, it’ll be a little extra. Being as you is in a kinda hurry, aint that so? Since most unfortunately your gin mill just happened to burn down last night?

(Silence. The sense that Silva is inspecting him.)

FRONT PORCH.

Baby Boy slithers out the front door to see what the commotion’s all about. He’s got his lavender kimono on, somewhat torn by Archie’s latest attempt to cop a feel in the bathroom yesterday. The kid’s smokin a cigarette, checking Silva out. He blows some smoke down thru his nose, his nostrils getting erect just looking at Silva’s thin young Sicilian snaky face.

Pretty Boy: Silva? How do you spell it?

(Silva spells it out. “Capital S-I-L-V-A.” Meanwhile, his eyes are checking out Baby Boy. Eating him up.)

Baby Boy: Oh, like silver lining. Every cloud has got a silver lining…

Silva: That’s right, kid. What’s your name?

Baby Boy: McCorkle.

Silva: McCorkle, McDorkle. Sounds McForkable…

Baby Boy: What are you, anyway. A wise-ass or something?

(Archie interrupts, opening the pickup door and ushering Silva inside the house.)

Archie: That’s okay, just don’t pay any attention to Baby Boy this morning. He done just got his ass outta bed and he’s still kinda grumpy.

(Archie grimaces at Baby Boy, raising his hand and pretending to almost give the kid a good backhand slap up the side of his head.)

Baby Boy: I dare you to slap me, you dumb fuck. I’ll call the Sheriff if you dare touch me again.

DINING ROOM.

(Archie laughs, glancing back at Silva over his shoulder, as if it were just a playful joke. The three of them trundle down the hallway and into the dining room. Aunt Rose Comfort is sitting at the dining room table, smoking a joint, playing solitaire with a beat-up, dog-eared deck of cards. She doesn’t even look up at them.)

Archie: Ah, there she is, just a bundle of joy. Do me a pretty little favor, won’t cha Aunt Rose Comfort? Please make me and my good friend, Mr. Silva, here a nice pot of black coffee so we can discuss some important business, hmm sweetie-pie?

Aunt Rose Comfort: Fix it yourself.

Archie: Why, you old, no-good, ungrateful, goddamn… Er, that’s all right honey, I’ll just have Baby Boy make some coffee for myself and our guest. Won’t cha, Baby Boy?

Baby Boy: Fix it yourself.

Archie: Ah, honey, Baby Doll, that’s okay. I’ll fix it right away. Ha! Ha! Just look at my boy blush. Haha! That’s my Baby Boy!!! He’s my little boy, every precious inch of him is mine, all mine!!! You just entertain Mr. Silva will ya, sweet pea, while I’m busy in the kitchen?

(Archie hustles off, banging around in the kitchen, getting some coffee on the stove boiling, cursing to himself about what he was gonna do someday…)

Baby Boy: Silva? That sounds foreign.

Silva: It’s Italian, kid. I’m known as the wop that runs the Syndicate Plantation.

(Baby Boy smirks. Takes a toke from Aunt Rose Comfort’s joint, then turns to Silva and opens up his kimono.)

Baby Boy: You like it?

(Silva is by now smoking his own cigarette, after turning down Aunt Rose Comfort’s friendly gesture of a little toke or two. Raising his eyebrows, he checks out the sizable endowments of Baby Boy. He nods knowingly, copping a feel of the kid’s 10-inch semi-hard uncut big one.)

Silva: Are you usually so generous kid? I can see why Archie Lee keeps you around this dumpy joint of his. You’re a much-needed little extra bit of swanky Southern Comfort sexy accoutrement, if you ask me. A nice little bit of high-class Michelangelo, kid.

Baby Boy: Well, Archie said to entertain you…

Silva: Well, kid, you certainly know how to do that.

(Baby Boy smirks, covering himself up again, nonchalantly drawing the puce sash of his kimono tight around his thin waist. Archie’s got the coffee together. He’s huffing and puffing his way back into the dining room. Aunt Rose Comfort shakes her head, her eyebrows raised toward the ceiling. She’s seen Baby Boy flirt to high heaven this way, a million times before. Especially if he wanted something, whether money, attention or maybe even a ticket outta this lousy joint.)

Archie: Here we go, folks. Just happened to be some nice black coffee already on the stove. Don’t pay any attention to loony-tune Aunt Rose, Mr. Silva. She’s just an old used-up coke-head stoner from way back during her louche Atlanta hippie dayz back when she was a college student. Next week I’m gonna be sending her away to the Home, the State Hospital for the Elderly and Criminally Insane there in Biloxi where she belongs.

(Gentle Aunt Rose Comfort gives Archie a swift kick under the table, sending the cat running for its life and all the mice scrambling for cover in the nearby rotting wainscoting. The whole mansion seems to moan and groan, the once-beautiful crystal chandelier in the faded ceiling sways this way and that way, hypnotizing the already stoned Aunt Rose, her glazed eyes drifting back seemingly to the long-gone Burning of Atlanta debacle and poor frantic Miss Scarlet trying to get outta town fast…)

(CUT BACK to Baby Boy. He emits an enormous yawn.)

Baby Boy: So. You’re a wop?

Silva (with ironic politeness): I’m a Sicilian, Baby Boy. A very ancient people…

Baby Boy (trying out the word): Sish! Shisch!

Silva: No, kid. Siss! Sicilian.

Baby Boy: You like pizza? That’s all I eat.

Archie (bursts out laughing): That aint all he eats!!!

(Baby Boy shrugs. Goes back upstairs.)

Archie: You don’t hear nothin I say! How do I catch your attention? What does a guy gotta do to get your attention, Baby Boy?