Sunday, March 31, 2013



“A bitter pessimism about
the possibilities of human
interaction pervades Tod
Browning’s work.”
—David Skall & Elias Savada

Pearls before Swine—
Jewels in the Carnie Sawdust

It really turns me on, baby—
gimme your PINHEAD LOVE!!!

Talk to me sexy FREAKY—
Be Mother Nature’s BIG MISTAKE

Handsome MUTANT MAN—
right up my fuckin’ alley, baby

got ya in that TOKYO Nightclub

SUSHI STUD so exquisitely fine—
real nice piece of LIVE EVIL EEL 

I like it raw naked fresh—
even tho it be awful expensive

Your Yakuza Sugar Daddy—
pimpin' you out for $10,000

Saturday, March 30, 2013

True Love


Sometimes I hate every—
Stupid word you say

Sometimes I wanna slap you—
Then kiss you with both my faces

There’s no one quite like you—
You push all my buttons down there

I know life would suck without you—
All the same I still hate you

I wanna wrap my hands around it—
You’re an asshole but I need you

I’m just mad over you that’s why—
I’m still here, hanging around you

You’re the only love I’ve ever known—
Even tho I still fuckin hate you

So much so it must be true love—
It’s gotta like be fuckin true love

Nothing else can break my heart—
It’s really getting harder & harder

No one else can turn me on—
Who cares if you’re a mental retard

It’s true love, baby, true love—
You’ve got me wrapped around your finger

Please oh Please, be mean to me, baby—
C’mon do it to me real nice and slowly

You can do babe, c’mon that’s the way—
Shoot your brains out you big hunk

Why do you walk away afterwards—
Like without sayin a fuckin thing

Even so, I wonder how in the world—
I ever came to be without you, babe

I think it must be true love true love—
Nothin can break my heart like true love!!!

Friday, March 29, 2013



—for Allen Ginsberg

I saw the best minds of my generation—
turn into SHIT, constipated complacent,
shitty ASSHOLES dragging themselves through 
vast lonely empty New Depression streets,
crummy Ghost-Malls and dark back-alleys…

YAKKING away on their dead cell-phones, talking
to themselves in strange twilight Tweeter speak,
floating through ruins of gone Suburban Malls,
parking lots full of burned-out spectral SUV’s…

Their shitty burned-out microwaved—
varicose-veined mushy dead brains,
their meathead ratty robot kids, children of
the Slacker generation, microchips hanging out
their assholes, talking blindly into dead air…

Scowling zombie-eyed American youth—
seduced by Bieber bubble-headed bimbos,
Lady Gaga goosey clones of their Couch Potato 
Daddies & Stepford Wives mommies, 
Saturday afternoon football games and six-pack babies, 
darkness descending over vast pill-popping, snorting, 
marijuana haze American Twilight Zone…

Bored bipolar post-traumatic Deficit Disorder Divas—
back-engineered by scowling bionic shadowy
Dystopian Corporate Monsanto mad scientists down 
to the last GMO gulp & final microwave twitch & 
spastic cell phone tumor. Followed by a nice shitty—
bioluminescent biohazard GREASY FART…

George Orwell’s Bad Hair Day soup du jour—
making sure all of the Prison Planet’s clocks are
like striking Thirteen o’clock. Plus Boredom Bingo
ruling the Bourgeois Masses, entertained by the  
same old fascist TV corporate commissars here in 
the Great Gulag Archipelago WASTE LAND.

Giving our BOZO Baby Boomer offspring & their 
Slacker Generation kids—the Old Soft-Shoe Dance 
down the fuckin drain, beneath another shitty rotten 

sad-sack Miami Blue Moon bloated up there in the 

Sky with bulimic Fukashima glow.

Breeders Awake!!! Take a good look at—your 
fat-assed Big Mac obese children sucking up 
all that cheap mercury-tainted corn syrup in 
all their shitty fast food & Pepsi-Cola. Gobbling 
all the SHIT FOOD down like craved heroin addicts—
all of them fat-assed with diabetes, these are your 
vaccine-poisoned lovely Children of the Night, 
look at what we’ve done to our Pretty Pouty Progeny…

SHIT, double SHIT, triple SHIT—just look at us. 
Aren’t we the Epicurean Epitome of the Evil Empire? 

Aren’t we the Envy of the Whole World—
quickly becoming just another crummy 
two-bit down & out Third World Dump,
hated by all the wised-up BRICS nations—
down the Shitter we go?

Shitty NEW DEPRESSION Weltschmertz—
living inside our illusionary TITANIC sinking dream, 
while we busy ourselves rearranging all the 
deck chairs as the Band Plays On…

SHITTY PONZI Artists, Bankster Gangster schemes—
while Lurid louche Lobbyist Politician Ugly Sisters
dumb us down with Bailouts for the Rich Offshore Elite. 
Mopping up the Remains of the Day—with the usual 
hidden housing market Scams enriched by that 
delicious delinquent Derivative Bubble 
just waiting to fuckin Pop!!!

Ah yes, isn’t the Globalist Agenda so exquisitely sweet—
all that lovely Deregulated Greed, greasy Job Outsourcing 
to those cheap China, Mexican & Indian Slave Labor 
Factories, replacing the Economy with the usual 
Unemployment, Food Stamps and Euthanasia? 

that old Thirties Weimar Kitschy Cabaret Song. 
You know the one—the one with Marlene Dietrich 

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Hollywood in Crises


“Not you, lean quarterlies and 
swarthy periodicals with your 
studious incursions toward 
the pomposity of ants”
—Frank O'Hara, “To the Film 
Industry in Crisis”

Glorious Silver Screen, tragic Technicolor—
amorous Cinemascope campy faggotry

Bringing back vivacious Queens new again—
startling Screams in Stereophonic Sound

Bring on your heavenly dimensions, dears—
your faggy reverberations & gay iconoclasms! 

Like Claire Trevor the ultimate fag noir queen—
singing her Swan Song in KEY LARGO

The QT Film Queens disappoint me—
with their tacky POMO theatrics

Their erudite Emotive Fruitions—
mincing around Filmic Insight perpetually

Promenading like Grand Opera divas—
obviously they have a Hidden Talent for it

After all they’ve even stooped to conquer—
Joan Crawford in MILDRED PIERCE

But they’ve missed the point, surely—
the Motion Picture Industry is now in Crisis

In times of crisis, we must all decide—
again and again whom we love

Redoing in drag our film noir divas—

And giving credit where it's due now—
this new drag version of BABY JANE (2010)

No longer just Grande Dame Guignol, honey—
Bette Davis & Joan Crawford dishing each other

Now they’re TRASHING each other in DRAG—
as only Drag Queens can exquisitely do

What was once over-solemn deification of—
a couple of aging has-been Queen Bees

Has been Resurrected from the LA Dead—
as an Introduction to Drag Entertainment

To butchy haughty dyke Barbara Stanwyck—
always ending up with the wrong fuckin Number!!!

To Jeanette MacDonald of the flaming lips—
and Sue Carroll as she sits bored on that fender 

To Ginger Rogers with her pageboy bob like a—
sausage on her shuffling shoulders

To tres gay, peach-melba-voiced Fred Astaire—
so fleet of foot & swirling dazzling Style

To Eric von Stroheim, La Grande Illusion genius—
as well as jilted former love of SUNSET BLVD

Johnny Weissmuller the jungle chicken in love—
with Tommy Cook in THE LEOPARD WOMAN

How can I forget handsome built Lex Barker—
in bed with Lana Turner’s pretty young daughter

Mae West her constant drag routine one-liners—
her bordello radiance & divine wise-cracks

Rudolph Valentino of the desert moonlight—
putting the make on innocent Norma Shearer

Clark Gable telling Vivien Leigh none other—
Than the fabulous vivacious Scarlett O’Hara

“Honey, like I don’t give a good goddamn”—
sweeping her up the giant spiral Staircase

Cornel Wilde the flatfoot in THE BIG COMBO—
Putting the make on Conte’s Jean Wallace

Fonte and Mingo the two hoodlum lovers—
Lee Van Cleef and Earl Holliman doin drag

Earl Holliman in SUMMER AND SMOKE—
the dumb country Salesman who suddenly

Makes Geraldine Page feel alive again—
no longer closeted Alma Winemiller 

Marilyn Monroe in her little spike heels—
reeling in the Clock Tower of Niagara Falls

Strangled to death by jealous Joseph Cotton—
Ending up like in SHADOW OF A DOUBT

Done in like the failed dystopian exec in—
SOLVENT GREEN with a crushing crowbar

Or better yet Joseph Cotten puzzling over—
failed boyhood romance with Orson Welles

What could be more cynically fag noir then—
Cotton as jilted lover in THE THIRD MAN?

Him & Alida Valli mooning over Harry Slime—
a drug-dealer in ruined postwar Vienna?

Especially the sewer scenes beneath the city—
former lovers finally confronting each other

Gloria Swanson reclining, sucking off cute—
William Holden her kept man in SUNSET BLVD

Jean Harlow reclining & wiggling like a whore—
Alice Faye reclining, wiggling and fucking

William Powell with his stunning urbanity—
getting seduced by femme fatale Claire Trevor

Letting Velma call the shots except for the—
very last one after Moose Malloy gets had 

To Elizabeth Taylor such a bitch queen kunt—

Blossoming as the real Bitch she really is—
Miss Burton playing the queer spouse

Going after young Professor George Segal—
with Sandy Denise playing the usual hysteric

Talk about early drag queen melodrama, honey—
reading the beads of the Str8t Scene

Creating quite a tiff amongst the film critics—
the drama critics saying “Told you so, dears”

So many others, the great, the near-great—
the extras who pass quickly & return in dreams 

Saving their one liners for cocktail parties—
illuminating the Screen with campy repartee

Dilettantes we movie queens are, honey—
Hollywood with its various campy incarnations

Let the money of Hollywood Babylon—
continue to glitter & amaze us in new ways

May the Divas shine under the Klieg lights—
in never-ending Packs for our Edification

Roll on, reels of celluloid, may you roll on—
like this Grand Old Earth rolls on! 

Monday, March 25, 2013

Queen of Noir

Claire Trevor, “Moanin’ Low” from KEY LARGO


I do my own MOVIES—
I do it with Words

The lives of poets & writers—
that really doesn’t interest me

Nobody’s perfect in this old world—
especially fucked-up actors

Instead I let my mind meld—
with some actor or actress’ Muse

Muse to Muse communiqués—
the usual surreal Automatic Writing

Faulkner did it with Raymond Chandler—
writing the filmscript for THE BIG SLEEP

Stream of consciousness, I suppose—
most of the time I don’t think about it

Like Billy Wilder letting Gloria Swanson—
Ad lib Norma Desmond in SUNSET BLVD

I just let it happen spontaneously—
impromptu improvisation outta the blue

Muses get that way sometimes, honey—
Grande Guignol queens especially

I’ve learned to fasten my seatbelt, baby—
Bette Davis with her Bumpy Night Routines

Nothing quite like ALL ABOUT EVE—
George Sanders as wicked Addison DeWitt

I’ve learned to swish like Tony Curtis—
and Jack Lemon in SOME LIKE IT HOT

I’ve learned to fly over Kansas fast—
after watching awful IN COLD BLOOD

I’ve been paranoid & scared to death—
like poor Joan Crawford in SUDDEN FEAR

I’ve let thugs like handsome Jack Palance—
use & fuckin abuse me like an old whore

getting undone in Lafitte’s during Mardi Gras

I’ve known a lot of old queens ending up—

I’ve known has-been divas like Claire Trevor—
Singing “Moanin Low” in tragic KEY LARGO

I’ve felt the same way sometimes late at night—
wind blowin outside cooped up with some hoods

I’ve known some really nice Stiff Ones—
like in Tourneau’s I WALKED WITH A ZOMBIE

I’ve been had by lots of smooth Lounge Lizards—

I’ve even fallen in love maybe once—

All these Hollywood fantasies end up being—
Monsters of the Id outta FORBIDDEN PLANET

But that be Okay because I haven’t given up—
I’m still looking for the perfect exquisite Lover

My one & only handsome SON OF FRANKENSTEIN—
Even if he be ugly with lots of awful stitches

That’s when I’ll sing “Moanin Low” just for him—
Just like Claire Trevor in KEY LARGO


—for Walt Whitman

Center of equal marriages, love

All, all alike whether str8t or gay

Supple, smooth, enduringly us

Possessors of our own lives at last

Sons & daughters of Whitman

Steering the Ship of State thru Time

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Jamal Parris


“A slave to the 
man you love”
—Jamal Parris

“While the media and the press 
and the rest of the people around 
the city or the rest of the country 
lookin askin how can you let a grown 
man suck ya but you have to 
understand that this man manipulated 
us from childhood. This was our father 
and we loved him.”—Jamal Parris

Noted homophobes Ted Haggard, George A. Rekers, Richard Curtis, Roy Ashburn, Albert Odulele, Mark Foley, Christopher Lee, Eddie Long, Jim West, Paul Babeu, Ken Mehlman and Larry Craig have been rather unceremoniously forced out of their respective closets fairly recently since they be so full of the usual evangelical skeletons. And de occasional rent boy.

Ever once in awhile lately it seems some of the various sexual victims are beginning to publish their own tell-all versions a la TRUE CONFESSIONS, going into the lurid memoir mode that would make even THE NATIONAL ENQUIRER crowd blush there in the check-out aisles of America’s chic suburban middle class culture.

Anti-gay politicians and pastors who be turnin' out to be gayer than a three-dollar bill, honey—they be de talk of de town lately. The question is whether the Fundamentalist Evangelical Community can "forgive" their various beloved meandering ministers and poor pastors who've lost their way?

After all, it be only a matter of time before some young dude—finally starts usin' de time-honored well-honed scandalously famous Feuilletonist literary style to be readin' de beads of de Gettin' Down Low Evangelical Grateful Dead, baby. 

Wednesday, March 13, 2013


Lady Bishop Edwina Longstroke


I always been wantin’ a Big Sugar Daddy—
A Big Rich Sugar Daddy takin’ care of me

You know like Elizabeth Taylor done had—
Cattin’ around in that “Cat on Hot Tin Roof”

A Big Rich Sugar Daddy in love with me—
Drivin me around in a Big Cadillac Limo

You know, keepin’ me in a Swanky Condo—
Buyin’ me de nice new clothes dontchaknow

A Big Rich Sugar Daddy makin’ me First Lady—
Bein’ de hoity-toity fancy Wife of de Bishop

Flyin’ me from Miami around de World—
Treatin’ me like de High Class Queen I be

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Perry Smith


Prairie wind pressed against the
windows, suckin at the glass

Perry was remote, suspicious
sullenly sleepy-eyed, remote

Nothing interested him, bored
he sized me up as another con

He was half-Irish half-Indian
I was talking to a young killer

“What kinda writer are you?”
he asked rather arrogantly

“Written any movies?” he said
already giving up on me

“Yeah, “Beat the Devil”—
with Humphrey Bogart…”

His eyes lit up, completely 
all mine from then on

“Bogart” he whispered, barely
audible above the wind outside

“He was my favorite actor ever
since “Treasure of Sierra Madre”

It flustered him, dissolving 
his con-artist tough façade

The old prospector, Walter Huston
was like his father, Tex Smith

From then on he was just a kid
in love with all the old movies

Pathetic, lonely, vain—
identifying with tough Bogart

Caught up in his own
film noir murder flick now

Monday, March 11, 2013

Black Moses

Black Moses

“There are no whites
and no blacks in
America, all of us
are mulattos.”
—James Baldwin

Unwittingly white—
even unwittingly black
we be a mulatto race

My dinge kid brother—
having it much more than me
his young male mulattohood

Mostly it be his dick—
jet-black penis compared to
his beige butchy build

Black male mystery—
going down on Black Moses
he knew I wanted it bad

Ten-inch Commandment—
his stoned tablet of Sinai
he let me have it

Parting the sheets—
engulfing Pharaoh’s army
my cute half-brother came


—for William Faulkner  

“Lordly girl, you be such a dizzy dilettante!!!”

“Dat be right, honey. I be Miss Delta Debutante.”

“You mean aging Contessa, don’t ya girl?”

“Delta Bourbon Grande Dame, please.”

“Honey, you be the de most Uppity Old Miss Thing.”

“But girl: I been doin’ de Down Low for years now!”

“Ha!! DL for you mean being de Dinge Queen!”

“Everybody down here in de Deep South be havin’ a little drop of Creole in dem, honey.”

“Yeah, baby, but you done get a pint of de good stuff every fuckin’ night, Miss Scarlet, honey.”

“I do declare, Miss Thing, you surely be in a bitchy Bead Readin’ mood tonight, girl.”

“I hear you been doin’ de Governor’s young handsome chauffeur lately, you old whore?” 

“Donzelle? Yeah, baby. He be so smooth, swanky, debonair-lookin’ in dat nice uniform of his.”

“Ha! His uniform ain’t de only thing you like, baby.”

“But I can’t help it if I like de Darke Meat, baby doll?”

“What would de Kingfish say, if he only knew, girl.” 

“Oh look! Dare be Donzelle now! Driving by!!!”

“What a Nice Big Slinky Limousine!”

“Look out! See dat big Cadillac limo he be drivin’?”

“Yeah, Donzelle be the Contessa of Cool all right.”

“He be cruisin for all de Young Stuff, honey.”

“Ya mean de Kingfish like de college boys?”

“Do dey waltz in Vienna, girl?”

“I’m simply shocked! You mean that…”

“Does the sun rise in the East, baby?”

“Well, I guess you oughtta know, Miss Thing.”

“Dat’s right. I be IN THE KNOW, honey.” 

“You used to be Huey P. Long’s chicken, didn’t ya?”

“Dat was way back in de Thirties, honey.”

“You must be old as an ole ugly Alligator, girl!”

“It’s de Fountain of Youth, baby. Dat young Stuff.”

“How exquisitely decadent, my dear.”

“It’s what makes de Magnolias moan at night.”

“How lovely and seminal it sounds.”

“It’s what makes the Spanish Moss so well hung.”

“Yes, the Vieux Carré still be rather charming.”

“It’s what makes Mardi Gras so heavenly.”

“Yes, Tiger Town still be tres nostalgic.”

“It’s what made the Hippies so hip!”

“Gaud, that be back in the Sixties!”

“It’s what made de Drop-Outs so cool.”

“Chimes Street back then musta been…”

“It’s what made de young Druggies drool”

“Didn’t you used to live there back then?”

“It’s what made all de Draft Dodgers so debonair”

“How “Gone With The Wind,” my dear—

“It’s what made de Dinge Queens so desperate.”

“You must be de Delta Queen Muse, girl!!”

“Dat be what Miss Faulkner say, Honey.”

“Holy Mackerel, you knew her too, my dear?”

“I be a guest at Rowan Oakes Plantation many drunken weekends, don’t cha know, sweetheart.”

“You musta got to know all de Mississippi Delta Bourbon queens back then, Miss Scarlet?”

“Just ask Butterfly McQueen, girl, she know.”

“And Yoknapatawpha?” 

“Honey, I got to know Yoknapatawpha as good as yams, gumbo and corn whiskey sitting up late into de humid Night there on Miss Faulkner’s verandah with de bougainvillea snaking round my ankles and de magnolias moanin’ and groanin’ in de sad eternal Southern Delta moonlight that once was……”


"But you are Blanche, 
you are in that chair!" 
What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?

"I don't hate it," Quentin said, 
quickly, at once, immediately; 
"I don't hate it," he said. "I 
don't hate it he thought, panting 
in the cold air, the iron New 
England dark: I don't. I don't! 
I don't hate it! I don't hate it!" 
—William Faulkner, "Absalom, Absalom!"

It’s like the way Faulkner ends “Absalom, Absalom.” When he has Quentin the queer Southern boy closet case he uses as a foil say to his handsome Harvard roommate when describing the South:

“I don’t hate it! I don’t hate the South! I don’t hate it!” 

But, of course, he really does hate it. Their séance flashback to the doomed love affair between Henry Sutpen and his octoroon half-brother Bon the Beautiful Sutpen brings out in stark relief the homosexual angst over being gay back then—during the Civil War and later with Quentin at Harvard. 

Quentin ends up committing suicide and jumping off the bridge into the Charles River—because of his guilt over his gay feelings.

“I don’t hate it! I don’t hate Kansas! I don’t hate it!” 

And yet I hated Kansas back then and I still hate the goddamn state. It was more of a state of mind than anything. Growing up queer in Kansas is not the place to be—just like growing up gay in the Deep South was exactly the way to go for either Quentin Compson or Henry Sutpen or any other young man back then in one of Faulkner’s troubled novels.

I suppose Faulkner’s the reason I feel like I do about Kansas. “I don’t hate Kansas! I don’t hate it!” But like Quentin, I really do hate Kansas. I hate Kansas and I hate myself for being gay back then. Being gay and not being able to do anything about it. Guilting myself constantly ending up in an impossible struggle that I had to overcome to survive—something Quentin and Henry weren’t able to do. 

My own literary opinion is that Faulkner was a closet-case too—and that he used his Deep South fiction to develop the Theme and work out its nuances. “The Sound and the Fury” wasn’t enough of a dramatic space to represent himself with the multiple characters and multiple timelines. 

So, Faulkner came back to the gay theme in “Absalom, Absalom”—taking up with Quentin Compson’s generation the previous generational gay problem that first appeared in “Sound and the Fury.” This time he was more explicit and used the new novel to revisit the earlier Modernist tour-de-force.

And yes, I was like Blanche trapped in a wheelchair—in “What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?” I was ever so tragically crippled by the hateful homophobia of that ugly little Fly Over State, that dour sickly Sunflower State, that gaunt Midwestern State of American Goth. Kansas was Stra8t outta that horrible, creepy painting—by poor tormented closet-case Grant Wood. 

Hating Kansas for being Homophobic is one thing. Getting outta the closet was an entirely different problem for a kid back then in the Fifties, raised in such a gothic Republican Religious Right Wing Red State nightmare milieu—even now the closetry pressures & guilting of gays in the Fly Over State is tremendously daunting, depressing and full of despair. 

There’s nothing worse than a pugnacious Peer Group on your back or a bunch of mean rabid disparaging homophobic Adult queer bashers to drive a kid into depression, denouement and even suicide. It still happens even now. The national news is full of horror stories about gays and lesbians in schools ruthlessly bullied, even killed—and without hardly any Adult counseling or societal concern.

Very few writers have got into Midwestern gay noir—although there’s “Mysterious Skin” author Scott Heim’s novel made into a film by queer cinema director Greg Araki in 2004. The kid thinks he’s been abducted by aliens but actually it was his baseball youth league fag coach who seduced him—and fantasy is how the kid deals with it and how Scott Heim then deals indirectly with the whole Kansas homophobe issue.

Even after Scott’s novel was successfully published and became a popular Greg Araki film—the author went through a terrible writer’s block in NYC still not recuperating from the obvious shock and trauma of having grown up gay in Kansas and then telling his own “Absalom, Absalom” version of what happened.

In other words, even when one gets outta Kansas, the past is there still haunting you in your gay unconscious and there’s still skeletons in your repressed closet even though the Fly Over State is miles and miles away. 

Scott Heim’s Kansas demons still haunted him even in New York City—one’s gay boyhood bildungsroman isn’t just a literary artifact. No more than one can’t stop dreaming homophobic nightmares at night—even though it’s all in the past. 

The past is never over—it’s as much a part of the present tense as I’m speaking now. In fact, perhaps, stream of consciousness as Faulkner used it to represent the internal flow of Benjy the child-idiot boy of the Compson family and Quentin’s brother—is an authorial method that makes “Sound and the Fury” as well as “Absalom, Absalom” so useful in homosexual representation of gay consciousness.

Like Heim I got outta Kansas and lived in another state. I went to live with my father in Louisiana and decided to go to college at LSU in Baton Rouge. 

The first novel assigned in my English class was guess what? Faulkner’s “Absalom, Absalom.” It was like a lightening bolt outta the blue. To plunge into the mind of one of the most complex Southern writers of the Deep South—and suddenly be confronted with the whole issue of homosexuality, incest and other matters hardly heteronormative in nature, my dears. 

That was stunning enough—being able to talk about such matters in a university classroom. Debating the fine lines of being queer in the antebellum South—and even falling in miscegenal love with one’s high yellow Mandingo half-brother, Bon The Beautiful!!!

But also, Mardi Gras in the Big Easy—with all the shocking flamboyance of French-Creole New Orleans gay parades, gay bars, gay drag and incredibly out-of-the-closet LSU queens who had been screaming faggots since birth!!!!

I fell in love with the Deep South and Gay Delta Culture. I liked it so much and enjoyed the works of Faulkner so well—that I was almost an eternal English major for life. Dorm life was tres gay—but living in the hippie-gay ghetto north of campus with a young black lover was even better. 

And yet, my dears, there was this “House of Usher” haunted mansion feeling still in my fag unconscious that would raise its ugly head now and then. As I began publishing gay poetry in the mid-Seventies and early Eighties in SF with Gay Sunshine Press and in Boston with Fag Rag—there was still this strange little aspect to my gay authorial faggotry that gnawed and demanded some kind of recognition down there deep in the cesspool of my Kansas queer libido.

With the burgeoning forth of the bastard child of the Guttenberg Revolution—the Internet and the Blogosphere it created—the stage was set for something that went beyond the early stages of SF Gay Literary Renaissance in the Seventies into a new stage of Gay Literary Instantaneous Gratification—so appealing to queenly literati and fag intelligentsia such as yours truly.

True, it was gratifying to publish “Chicken” and “Size Queen” with Gay Sunshine Press in the Seventies and Eighties. And yes, my dears, gratifying to have copies ensconced there in libraries across the USA, especially the campus library at LSU in Baton Rouge. 

And yes, it was gratifying to be published in the esteemed “Penguin Book of Homosexual Verse” and “Son of the Male Muse” and other queer anthologies. 

But now something even more instantaneously self-gratifying and exquisitely pleasurable is taking place around us, my dears—the Amazon Planet is upon us.

With the closure of Borders and so many Barnes & Noble chain bookstores and the explosion of the new Kindle and Nook E-book culture, one has to ask oneself—where is Print Book Culture heading… or even better yet, where in the world is Gay Publishing parading off to next? 

No more heavy annoying backpacks full of textbooks for the vast legions of Breeder offspring? No more expensive textbooks for college kiddies to lug around to classes or why type out homework pages on the naked stripped skin of trees when email is so much more easier—and collegiality and group-think so much more charming and sophisticated and tweeting, baby, than the ole IBM Selectric days of my antique university days?

And so, my dears, now in the waning days of my Gay Grande Dame Guignol writerly existence, I feel very fortunate that as yet I haven’t ended up like Joan Crawford upstairs in my wheelchair completely dependent on that bitch Bette Davis in that great fag femme fatale melodrama WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE.

Hopefully, honey, I can still remain being somewhat of a gracefully aging Modern Maturity Moderné queen, a blithering Blanche upstairs with my tacky little laptop and Amazonian kitschy Kindle—busily reading, writing, typing away and forever staying electronically young at heart—with my neat little bitchy Blogettes telling the ongoing faggy hardly heteronormative, melodramatic gossipy never-ending Great Gay American Novel—you know the one… The one about…