Friday, September 27, 2013

Pegging Straight Boys


Just say NO to Pegging!—
Keep butt-fucking QUEER!
That’s what us Queens say!!!

Who cares if straight boys—
Love stuff stuck up their butts
By their slutty girlfriends!!!

Simply bores me to tears, my dears
A dildo up their ass???

The QT Queen Bees—
Surely have to criticize such
Tacky Queer Assimilation!!!

Monday, September 23, 2013



“Don’t show me,”
Popeye said. 
“Tell me.”
—William Faulkner

I’m telling myself—
Like I told myself back then
“Trust your Intuition”

Edward Albee says—
The same thing in his
Memoir “Stretching It”

Creative writing can’t be
Taught, it comes naturally

Like Martha says in—
“What a fucking dump!!!”

Intuition cuts thru all that—
Like a hot knife thru butter
It shows you the way

Huey P. Long Pool


Now a run-down ruin—
Like an old Southern mansion
But divoon back then

Back in the Sixties—
The Dixie Decadence was
Very addictive

Summer school was like—
Being a rich Guest at the Spa
Lollygagging there

By the swimming pool—
Cruising guys in the showers
Or reading Faulkner

What better way to—
Avoid Quentin at Harvard
His sad suicide…

Dixie Decadence


There at LSU—
Southern Decadence centered
In the Quadrangle

The new Middleton—
Library with my book there
Ensconced in the stacks

Between Miss Ginsberg—
And Mademoiselle Miss Proust
SF Gay Sunshine Press

After Wildman died—
He willed all of his books to
Middleton Library

“Chicken” (1979)—
was my own little toe-hold
in Dixie Decadence

Some Southern Writers



There amidst all the—
Twisted & gnarled old oak trees
I haunted The Quad

The Library and—
Allen Hall with its moody
English Department

Walker Percy whose—
The Moviegoer simply
Charmed me to no end

But his office hours—
Were dominated by his
Father’s suicide


We discussed Faulkner—
How tragic his writer’s life
In Mississippi

He was very much—
Like Noel Polk a Faulkner
Scholar and writer

Both imbued in me—
Deep South ambiguity
When it came to love

The whole campus there—
In Baton Rouge seemed very
Dixie decadent


Another writer—
From Mississippi thinking
Like Faulkner would think

I knew a kid once—
From Pascagoula like Polk
Fell in love with him

Maybe it was just—
The way he spoke his wordage
Thick as cane syrup

I had him read me—
Faulkner in bed in the dorm
After we made love

Noel Polk


“The whole Brownlee 
episode appears set 
aside in a parenthesis, 
as though merely a 
subsidiary clause”
—Noel Polk, “ Reading the 
ledgers,” The Mississippi 
Quarterly 07-01-2002

Dear Noel, I completed my GDM postings on Percival Brownlee: “The Percival Brownlee Ledgers,” “Percival Brownlee Redux” and “Interview with Percival Brownlee.” Thanks to your Mississippi Quarterly seminal essay, I was able to see how all the other Faulkner critics (except you) avoided the Brownlee ledger episode in GDM like the plague, a sexual literary taboo. Miscegenal & incestuous sexuality was just too much for them. 

Like Isaac many critics suppress the Brownlee issue—which to me is the key to GDM text. It’s true that what Faulkner leaves out is often more important than what he actually puts in. A subtle modernist technique—to let the Reader play with the text & imagine as much as he or she can. So much lit crit avoiding the obvious which to me as a gay poet is as simple as reading the Ledger entries. 

Sorry to bother you, but it’s been on my mind since reading your Mississippi Quarterly essay. I see similarities to TSATF. Absalom, Absalom, As I Lay Dying and the Snopes cycle. The gay subtext is deeper than most people think; deeper than the Tallahatchie or Mississippi. I felt it at LSU down by the levee. And Allen Hall with Wildman. The undertow in me & the Deep South… Dennis

Quentin as Closet Case

Young William Faulkner

Quentin as Closet-Case


“Shreve might not be
in Quentin’s pants, but
he’s surely in his head,
a far more terrifying
place for him to be.”
—Noel Polk, “How Shreve
Gets in to Quentin’s Pants,”
Faulkner and Welty and
The Southern Literary Talent

Poor Quentin

Dalton Ames knows it—
And so does Shreve McCannon
They know Quentin’s queer.

They know him better—
More than Quentin knows himself
Mississippi queen.

All of Harvard knows—
Quentin be a closet case
Yes, Quentin be gay.

Quentin falls in love—
With young butch Shreve Mccannon
Same with Dalton Ames.

Jealous of Caddy—
He goes down on Dalton Ames
On the bridge back then.

He’s seen them make love—
Caddy toes pointing straight up
Dalton’s toes straight down.

Even Benjy knows—
Quentin be a real slut now
Just like Caddy is…

On the Bridge

Quentin closet case—
Tries so hard not to be queer
But he can’t help it.

Dalton is all male—
Quentin and Caddy want him
They have the same lips.

Ames lets him have it—
Calls him “Caddy” when he cums
Quentin swoons away.

The Modernist way—
Long streams of consciousness
Dream-like, disjointed.

Alluding to sex—
Homoerotic love play
All in italics…

He isn’t thinking—
Quentin as a source of sex
It was Caddy’s lips.

He looks thru Quentin—
Like thru a piece of stained glass
Why meddle with names?

June Second 1910

“I was I am not”—
Mississippi or Harvard
I’m dead bones down here.

I jump off the bridge—
It’s not the Tallahatchie
It’s Charles River.

Where the boyz are nude—
Skinny-dipping having fun
They invite Quentin.

So easy to be—
“Blind immortal boy” again
In person this time.

I fucked it up tho—
Confused by little sister
My secret urges.

Beating of hot blood—
Young handsome well-hung Dalton
Going all the way.

Making me swallow it—
Dalton’s untethered huge hog
Down Hades abyss.

The River

I could smell the curves—
the river beyond the dusk
last light supine down.

The tranquil tideflats—
Beyond lights the clear pale sky
Dalton’s trembling dick.

Refuge in his pubes—
Conflict temporarily
Silenced by cuming.

Sudden sharp tart taste—
Salty as tears his snotty
Brothel between his legs.

Deep I Memphis trance—
Naked in Miss Reba’s place
Dalton subdues me.

Cuming into my—
Oh Jesus Christ he’s so hot!!!
No wonder I’m queer!!!

The aching rain—
Between silences inside me
Dalton flowing deep.

Shreve at Harvard

I can still taste him—
Invisible blood flowing
My cute young Greek vase.

Past my hot lean lips—
Staining my swan-throat with his
Young thick Moses Rod.

The long warm fingers—
Leaving me breathing hard there
The whispering dorm.

I need Shreve bad—
Like I needed Dalton Ames
Love those Harvard squirts.

Shuddering so hard—
Shreve thinks I’m gonna die
I’ve tried many times.

Somewhere I heard it—
Mississippi drumming down
In my beating heart.


Like Jason I keep—
Retuning to the scene of
Incestuous crime.

Going down on Ames—
Dalton’s girlfriends know the truth
Legs around his neck.

The Rod of Aaron—
The seed of young Abraham
Jacob’s cute angel.

My long monologue—
Hovers like moths before flames
And then retreating.

It’s colloquial—
Roots in spoken dialects
Oral intercourse.

When I lose control—
Sex, syntax, all of language
Goes out the window.

Faulkner keeps it up—
Typing away late at night
Rowan Oaks whiskey…

Trying Not to Say

“Faulkner though achieves
the effect f cinematic
significant episodes…
intimately intertwined”
—Noel Polk,
Children of the Dark House

Benjy tries to say—
But cant while his brothers try
Not to say what’s there.

Jason keeps talking—
He can’t help himself talking
He over-controls…

Quentin is desperate—
He shapes his syntax, grammar
Toward closetry.

Both Dalton Ames and—
Shreve McCannon his husband
Penultimate pricks.

Imagined conversations
Talking with father.

Episodes control—
Ironic self-reflexive
Gay witty wordplay.

Mélange of denial—
Negatives, mordant syntax
Saddest boy of all…


Every closet-case—
Has a Spoade lurking in there
Only too ready…

Squealing the secret—
Shreve be Quentin’s young husband
He loves to bottom.

It’s a train of thought—
Going back to Jefferson
Queer Quentin the fag.

His conversations—
Discomforted by closet

Shreve shrugs it all off—
So what if he’s not fucking
Cute sluts like we do?

Spoade a terrapin—
In a street full of Harvard
Dead desperate leaves.

Quentin unravels—
Séances with Dalton Ames
Dangerous bridges.

Benjy’s bleak golf course—
Full of lost golf balls eve
Benjy’s testicles.

Quentin desperate—
Not wanting to put in words

Henry Sutpen

Seancing the past—
Channeling the Sutpen voice
Letting it speak now.

Quentin & Henry—
Easily becoming what
Déjà vu can do.

Coached & abetted—
By shreve’s constant questioning
Dialog begins…

Sutpen’s design seems—
To overwhelm narrative
Queering Bon as dinge.

But Henry goes down—
In the Old Miss dorm at night
Surely knows Bon’s dinge?

Why not let Judith—
Get to know Mandingo love
And breed more young Bon’s?

Quentin like Henry—
Young Deep South closet case
Sees into the Past.


Quentin hates Harvard—
His Deep South dinge queenery
Doesn’t come off good.

Back to Jefferson—
Jason scowling in the wings
Benjy castrated.

Caddy got married—
Her husband queer for Quentin
His Compson goodlooks.

What was there to go—
Back to in Mississippi?

His father’s death and—
Mother’s crying all the time
Jason ditching it all.

Harvard taught you how—
To jump off a bridge into
A river’s cool death.

No wonder Quentin—
Simply jumped off the bridge
He hated the South…

Saturday, September 21, 2013

Behind the Candelabra


Yes, Miss Liberace. Quite the Queen Bee. I've seen the movie several times. What's marvelous and amazing is that a movie like this is possible now after all these years. Closetry is bad enough wherever you are, especially back then. Professional closetry even more difficult it seems, but then Liberace covered it all up with his flamboyance and Las Vegas act. It was just all show-biz, dontchaknow. Even so, was the price worth it? Liberace, Rock Hudson and all those thousands of SF & NYC young gays dead of aids. Jimmy Stevens one of them. 

It's lucky I was married to Frank all those years and didn't do the bar or dance club scene. The booze and drugs. It's a wonder the gay movement even survived. Of course, there was Act Up and now retro-virus medicines. The obits in the Bay Area Reporter in SF back in the 80's and 90's went for pages. Now it's down to one or two. Most young gays don't even know about or care about that era that some of us went though anymore.

The Liberace movie is excellent because it's an actual 'uncloseted' documentary melodrama of the way things really were. The struggles of an artist and pianist to be true to his art, even if he is gay, and still perform his dream. Even though they've closed the Vegas Liberace Museum and all the blue-rinse ladies that flocked to his shows are all dead now...

My imagination is like that. I know the FFA boys back in the Midwest were all mostly ugly and had bad teeth. But I try to publish a midwest-noir blog world of fantasy, romance and beauty like Liberace did. It's the only way I can keep from having nightmares about that little Shit-hole of a Kansas Cow-Town down by the tracks. They did to the Hispanics & Somali at Iowa Beef what Bloxom did to Rodriquez  there in that hellish corner room of the EHS tomb. They're still doing it, nothing really changes back there, does it?

It's amazing to me, Connie, that we even survived back then. Some didn't, they succumbed by stoically getting married and just simply living & dying there. I read the Gazette obits and feel sorry for all those lost lives who stayed there, lived there, had kids there, paid taxes there, then just died there. It's the same with my grandparents, my mother & her second husband from Olpe. Somehow trying to compensate for their despair and unhappiness, they slaved all week. Then smoke and drank themselves to death at the VFW nightclub every Saturday night. 

I fled from such futility like you did into Jane Eyre and literature. That's why I'm fond, I suppose, of that 9th grade Gazette photo of you, me, Roberta and Jan Tholen. It's like I felt Elsie Pine, Louis Jaquith and Marjorie Sullivan sensed that fleeing despair in me and gave me that award. Why? What did they sense in me? A poet who didn't know it, ha ha???  

It was just a young gay confused fag who hadn't found the trick of being a Miss Liberace yet.

Monday, September 16, 2013

Jane Eyre


Speaking of Madwomen up there—
Moldering away in the closety Attic
I’ve always been fond of Jane Eyre

Of course there was that other—
Emily Bronte classic with Cathy &
Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights

Starring brooding Miss Oliver—
And withering Merle Oberon as
The doomed Yorkshire lovers

But Joan Fontaine doesn’t have—
A chance as the noble governess
In this bleak Gothic soap opera

Orson Welles as melancholy—
Morose Mr. Rochester hogs up the
Silver Screen as usually my dears

Wuthering Sleights


Young Heathcliff
Hareton Earnshaw
Wuthering Slights
Moors Crossing
Spending the Night
Mytholmroyd Romance
Stormy Weather
Haunted Heathcliff 
Young Giant
The Moors
The Boar

Young Heathcliff

“He is a dark-skinned
gipsy in aspect”
—Emily Brontë
Wuthering Heights

Stephen Jones my landlord—
Was much younger than I thought

I was immediately attracted—
By his sullen bleak eyes

Gazing darkly suspiciously from—
His moody brows as he rode up

A perfect misanthrope like me—
Desolate as the Plains can be

Flint Hills so tres engulfing—
A vast sea surrounding us all about

The Bay of the Dead all around—
Me as Our Lady of the Shipwrecked

The cliff’s edged bare bones—
Admonitory Druid monoliths leering

Here and there on the stony hulk—
Tall grasses begrudgingly bent below

Hareton Earnshaw

“crumbling griffins and
shameless little boys”
—Emily Brontë
Wuthering Heights

The power of the North Wind—
Gave Wuthering Sleights its name

The wind was blowing all the time—
Slanting thru some stunted firs

Gaunt thorn bushes clawing—
Clinging to the forbidden mansion

The windows were narrow—
Deeply set in the brooding walls

Jutting stones defended the corners—
The door a massive thick slab of oak

It was more like a wrecked ship—
All it needed was sharp whitecap waves


“this was land’s end”
—Sylvia Path

This was land’s end surely—
A cliff overlooking a black sea

All around the boulder tonnage—
Knuckled, rheumatic, gnarled

It was a gloomy dump—
Left over from an old, messy time

But the rock-pile didn’t budge—
It hid its grudges discontentedly

How did this young Southern Belle—
End up here in this ruined estate?

The doom-dreary wrecked past—
Tomb of dead resurrected souls

I’d married the young landlord—
I lived in his Hall of the Undead

Wuthering Slights

“rooks croak above 
the appalling ruins”
—Sylvia Plath
“Conversation Among
the Ruins”

Through the grim portico—
Of the grim elegant mansion

Ruins, black shadows—
Creeping thru a castle

Bankrupt estate—
Forgotten winter landscapes

A single Cyclops-eye—
Staring down from the moon

A brooding Dixie girl—
Alone in such a bleak place

Moors Crossing

“storm-struck deck”
—Sylvia Plath
“Channel Crossing

Each window shuddered—
The shock of the wind

Cleaving the house—
Waves, a stubborn hull

The stone ship—
Moving standing still

Rock-haven harbored—
Straining high above

Quirky sullen smirk—
Its mock-heroic pose

Studying me to see—
How long I’d last here

Spending the Night

“chalk cliffs blanched”
—Sylvia Plath
“Channel Crossing”

Too stormy to leave—
Cloaked in Kansas awe

Sitting by the fire—
Rackety flux outside

Blasts of icy wind—
Freezing onslaught storm

Sipping wine quietly—
Listening in frightened awe

Why would anybody—
Prefer such stark violence?

Bleak stark estate—
Ransacked and forsaken

Keeping such strange—
Unsaid secrets here

My husband Heathcliff—
Smiles as I walk the plank

Mytholmroyd Romance

“tottering banners”
—Sylvia Plath
“The Snowman on the Moor”

Struggling nonchalance—
Wrestling with angels

How was I to know—
My young husband grieved

He sized me up gravely—
A peacock-feathered fop

Not used to Kansas gloom—
Nor sullen, moody prairies

Stuck here my whole life—
Ending up in my room

Fitfully sleeping thru nights—
Branches rattling the window

Attracted and yet repelled—
Are all Cattlemen this way?

Stormy Weather

“She shied sideways”
—Sylvia Plath
“The Snowman on the Moor”

Stalemated by the plains—
“Come find Me” she taunted

Who was she in my dream?—
Stuck on the grim windowsill

Standing, haunting me—
Gaunt, winter-beheaded daisies

Stephen Jones warned me—
Without much polite goodwill

Not to pay attention to her—
Just a ghost of the dark night

The wind-harrowed night—
The weltering wind agreed

She had access to the plains—
Heathcliff nursing his rage

Haunted Heathcliff

“subdue an unruly man”
—Sylvia Plath
“The Snowman on the Moor”

A fire-blurting, volcano-hot—
Fork-tongued demon man

Above marble snow-heap plains—
Stone-hatcheted so very proud

Iron thighs, grisly-thewed—
Cowboy spur and knot

Moody face, smirky look—
Cynical, smoking his cigar

Dangling spike-studded belt—
Rich rancher and banker

Owned most of Strong City—
As well as The Flint Hills

Meanwhile the blizzard—
Turned into nightlong tryst

I tried to shy away sideways—
But it was already too late

The Plains

“a white fizz!”
—Sylvia Plath
“The Snowman on the Moor”

Throughout the dark night—
I withstood the dour assaults

The now-flowing wind—
His hard rough Texas lips

His root firmly-fixed deep—
His crudeness, his cruelty 

Each time another ruin—
His obscene Rod of Aaron mine

Cast down Pharaoh’s staircase—
It was like some cattle-drive

Remembering the magnolias—
Of lowland Alabama days

My Southern Belle maiden youth—
My shrewd secret landlord man

The Boar 

—Sylvia Plath

Gawd how he was endowed—
With a Giant Heathcliff Hog

Impounded from public stare—
Prize of the porky pig show

My bedroom lantern-lit shock—
Coming thru the sunken sty door

I gaped and gasped—
No delicate blue china lips

Glorified prime male flesh—
Mire-smirched, blowzy

Groping me his Snout-cruise—
His vast Brobdingnag boner

His slutty ogling eyes agog—
Prodigious haughty Hoghood 

Stomaching no constraint—
Proceeding to swill and slops

Stephen Jones and I—
Happy husband and wife


“stone-built town”
—Sylvia Plath
“Hardcastle Crags”

Flint-like my high heels—
Striking up a racket of echoes

Down the steely street—
Moon-blue rooks in the alleys

Stone-built town there—
Tireless, tied to Western past

Tracing Strong City’s roots—
Its Railroad-Cattle Wounds

Down the fissured valley—
Santa Fe tracks to Kansas City

Lost lusts under his boots—
The dream-people Town slept

Nothing dwelt in the town—
Equal to his moneyed grasp

Granite guises and shadows—
Antique looming landscapes

Sway of Chase County power—
Couldn’t wait to get away