______________
DINGE POET
_________________
_________________
Dinge Poet
“the importance of a
writer is continuous”
—James Baldwin,
Nobody Knows My Name
My problem’s being—
Continuous with myself
I be a Dinge Queen.
Writing is sometimes—
Not very rewarding but
It’s continuous.
A poet describes—
Things which other people don’t
Have time to describe.
It’s dysfunctional—
Let’s face it being a dinge
Poet is the Pits.
It’s hard to turn back—
Once a poet has gone black
Ask Miss Mapplethorpe.
Dinge City Speaks
Sometimes Dinge City—
Speaks like a dirty white boy
Doing the down-low.
Other times it speaks—
Not with words but with gestures
Juju jive jizz ones.
Beyond black & blue—
Snake-back sexy-slithery
Moments just for you.
Like today down at—
The old South Center ghost mall
It happened to me.
At the post office—
I bump into this dinge doll
Tall, handsome, gangly.
His skin is pale beige—
He has bright orange kinky hair
And lovely thick lips.
Flat erect nostrils—
I can see them quivering
When he sees me cruise.
I like stare at him—
While he goes back to his car
I just can’t help it.
Then to my great shock—
I get a good look at the
Fat faggot driver.
He has a big grin—
Smeared all over his fag face
It isn’t pretty.
I be so jealous—
Simply consumed with awful
Dinge queen penis-envy.
That old white faggot—
Doing the down-low you know
Getting the kid off.
I just can’t do it—
Lick one stupid fuckin’ stamp
Thinking about it.
Dinge City just smirks—
Destroying me completely
With one little dish.
Dinge Journal
“strangled by
a most petulant
and unmasculine
pride”—James Baldwin,
Nobody Knows My Name
That’s my last worry—
Being petulant & proud
Over what, my dear?
I’ve been down so long—
Everything else looks up
But nobody knows.
Nobody know my—
Name & what I do in bed
But that’s just a lie.
Dinge Journal
“It is best of me
that disappears and
it will o longer
counterbalance
the worst”
—Andre Gide
I envy Tyrone—
To relish without guilt his
Sensuality.
The way he gets off—
Without paying for it
He doesn’t feel guilt.
He just doesn’t care—
He seems to know himself more
That I ever could.
Dinge Journal
“there are a great
many ways of
outwitting oblivion”
—Andre Gide
Who wants to be me—
I know I don’t wanna be
Who I used to be.
Whatever I am—
Now is what I wanna be
Not me but Tyrone.
Right before he pops—
He holds his breath a long time
It’s him losing it.
Dinge Journal
“I am not the
man to assess
Andre Gide”
—James Baldwin
I lose it too then—
That’s when I become Tyrone
All 12 spaz inches.
I become Tyrone—
And it isn’t easy sometimes
Ejaculating.
He becomes his dick—
And I become a Dinge Queen
With each spastic jerk.
Dinge Journal
“whether or not
it was natural for
Socrates to swallow”
—James Baldwin,
Nobody Knows My Name
Jerking off later—
With his cum still in my mouth
I lose it real bad.
That’s how strong he is—
Cum-concentrated masculine
A tablespoon’s worth.
Simply disgusting—
The more disgusting it tastes
The more I want him.
Dinge Journal
“It was the
Protestantism
I felt, that made
Him so pious”
—James Baldwin,
Nobody Knows My Name
Is that what it is—
When I be making love to
Tyrone late at night?
I be just pious—
Sucking off is dinge penis
And milking it good?
Is it Sunday School—
Tyrone so smooth & creamy
Hardly, my dear.
Dinge Journal
“I care now for
The Immoralist than
I did when I read it
several years ago”
—James Baldwin,
Nobody Knows My Name
I like the title—
That’s about all I admire
What a tortured book.
Gide is so full of—
Fag egocentricity
Exasperatingly so.
He never really—
Got “over it” coming-out
Of his dark closet.
Notes Toward
A Dinge Novel
“I’m writing a novel
in your presence”
—James Baldwin,
Notes for a Hypothetical Novel
What could be more dinge—
Halting, shadowy, faggy,
Superficial?
But that’s the Story—
I a nutshell or rather
A nice tight nutsac.
I’m not pretending—
To be straight or unbiased
Just American.
*
I really can’t say—
Too much about Africa
They killed Kato, right?
They beat his brains in—
With an old fucking hammer
Trotsky got an ice-pick.
Let’s pretend this book—
Writes itself out of the blue
The way I grew up.
*
Let’s pretend it’s not—
A novel after all but
Instead just a game.
You know, impromptu—
Tres improvisational
Faggy & ad lib?
There are some people—
Who live their whole lives that way
Dizzy, scatterbrained.
*
Without Principle—
Marriage, childbirth, divorce or
All that sort of stuff.
I know a country—
Nothing but incoherent
People coast to coast.
And I’m one of them—
My incoherency is so
Bad I can’t write it.
*
I can’t write it down—
I can only live it out
Am I doomed to dinge?
I have the image—
From a not so old picture
A dead black poet.
I have this image—
Kato struggling on a floor
His brains bashed out.
*
One of the black thugs—
Who hated homosexuals
Bashed his head in bad.
Not with an ice-pick—
But with an everyday
Hammer smashing down.
Once, twice, maybe more—
That’s how bad masculinist
Macho rage can get?
*
Kato’s murder case—
Sort of like Pasolini
We won’t ever know.
No wonder I get—
A dinge writer’s block when I
Try to write it down.
It doesn’t feel like—
Langston’s Harlem Renaissance
Niggeratti chic.
*
It doesn’t look like—
Van Vechten sleek photographs
Smoke, Lilies and Jade.
It looks more like “now”—
Bishop Long & his cute boyz
Down in Atlanta.
It’s writing itself—
This unwritable novel
Right in front of me.
*
A life of its own—
And it’s changing all the time
Continuous dinge.
Tyrone had back-slid—
As Miss Baldwin sayz about
His Harlem church dayz.
My bad kid brother—
Started smoking cigarettes
And then wicked weed.
*
He’s the one that got—
Me loaded & down on my
Louche cocksucking knees.
His Negro penis—
Really liked my whitey lips
Talk about dinge queen.
It opened my eyes—
Just as much as it opened
My big fat fag lips.
*
I asked myself then—
Who is my half-brother &
Where does he come from?
The dinge world I was—
Encountering wasn’t just
Pitch-black plus pink head.
What did sex mean to—
Tyrone, where was it coming
From, hat did he want?
*
How did I end up—
Down on my knees this way
Sucking, rimming him?
Why did Tyrone taste—
So goddamn slimy & awful
Yet I wanted more?
These kind of questions—
Sound awfully stupid now
There were no answers.
*
The same things can be—
Posed about young Samoans
Who live with the blacks.
There in Holly Park—
Across from the Safeway store
At the old bus stop.
The slick rainy streets—
This noir city full of shades
And many races.
*
Intermixed & young—
Miscegenal Pacific
New Native Sons.
Blacks & Samoans—
Happening so very slow
Nonchalantly smooth.
Different shades of dinge—
Golden nuances, racial
Chiaroscuro boyz
“the importance of a
writer is continuous”
—James Baldwin,
Nobody Knows My Name
My problem’s being—
Continuous with myself
I be a Dinge Queen.
Writing is sometimes—
Not very rewarding but
It’s continuous.
A poet describes—
Things which other people don’t
Have time to describe.
It’s dysfunctional—
Let’s face it being a dinge
Poet is the Pits.
It’s hard to turn back—
Once a poet has gone black
Ask Miss Mapplethorpe.
Dinge City Speaks
Sometimes Dinge City—
Speaks like a dirty white boy
Doing the down-low.
Other times it speaks—
Not with words but with gestures
Juju jive jizz ones.
Beyond black & blue—
Snake-back sexy-slithery
Moments just for you.
Like today down at—
The old South Center ghost mall
It happened to me.
At the post office—
I bump into this dinge doll
Tall, handsome, gangly.
His skin is pale beige—
He has bright orange kinky hair
And lovely thick lips.
Flat erect nostrils—
I can see them quivering
When he sees me cruise.
I like stare at him—
While he goes back to his car
I just can’t help it.
Then to my great shock—
I get a good look at the
Fat faggot driver.
He has a big grin—
Smeared all over his fag face
It isn’t pretty.
I be so jealous—
Simply consumed with awful
Dinge queen penis-envy.
That old white faggot—
Doing the down-low you know
Getting the kid off.
I just can’t do it—
Lick one stupid fuckin’ stamp
Thinking about it.
Dinge City just smirks—
Destroying me completely
With one little dish.
Dinge Journal
“strangled by
a most petulant
and unmasculine
pride”—James Baldwin,
Nobody Knows My Name
That’s my last worry—
Being petulant & proud
Over what, my dear?
I’ve been down so long—
Everything else looks up
But nobody knows.
Nobody know my—
Name & what I do in bed
But that’s just a lie.
Dinge Journal
“It is best of me
that disappears and
it will o longer
counterbalance
the worst”
—Andre Gide
I envy Tyrone—
To relish without guilt his
Sensuality.
The way he gets off—
Without paying for it
He doesn’t feel guilt.
He just doesn’t care—
He seems to know himself more
That I ever could.
Dinge Journal
“there are a great
many ways of
outwitting oblivion”
—Andre Gide
Who wants to be me—
I know I don’t wanna be
Who I used to be.
Whatever I am—
Now is what I wanna be
Not me but Tyrone.
Right before he pops—
He holds his breath a long time
It’s him losing it.
Dinge Journal
“I am not the
man to assess
Andre Gide”
—James Baldwin
I lose it too then—
That’s when I become Tyrone
All 12 spaz inches.
I become Tyrone—
And it isn’t easy sometimes
Ejaculating.
He becomes his dick—
And I become a Dinge Queen
With each spastic jerk.
Dinge Journal
“whether or not
it was natural for
Socrates to swallow”
—James Baldwin,
Nobody Knows My Name
Jerking off later—
With his cum still in my mouth
I lose it real bad.
That’s how strong he is—
Cum-concentrated masculine
A tablespoon’s worth.
Simply disgusting—
The more disgusting it tastes
The more I want him.
Dinge Journal
“It was the
Protestantism
I felt, that made
Him so pious”
—James Baldwin,
Nobody Knows My Name
Is that what it is—
When I be making love to
Tyrone late at night?
I be just pious—
Sucking off is dinge penis
And milking it good?
Is it Sunday School—
Tyrone so smooth & creamy
Hardly, my dear.
Dinge Journal
“I care now for
The Immoralist than
I did when I read it
several years ago”
—James Baldwin,
Nobody Knows My Name
I like the title—
That’s about all I admire
What a tortured book.
Gide is so full of—
Fag egocentricity
Exasperatingly so.
He never really—
Got “over it” coming-out
Of his dark closet.
Notes Toward
A Dinge Novel
“I’m writing a novel
in your presence”
—James Baldwin,
Notes for a Hypothetical Novel
What could be more dinge—
Halting, shadowy, faggy,
Superficial?
But that’s the Story—
I a nutshell or rather
A nice tight nutsac.
I’m not pretending—
To be straight or unbiased
Just American.
*
I really can’t say—
Too much about Africa
They killed Kato, right?
They beat his brains in—
With an old fucking hammer
Trotsky got an ice-pick.
Let’s pretend this book—
Writes itself out of the blue
The way I grew up.
*
Let’s pretend it’s not—
A novel after all but
Instead just a game.
You know, impromptu—
Tres improvisational
Faggy & ad lib?
There are some people—
Who live their whole lives that way
Dizzy, scatterbrained.
*
Without Principle—
Marriage, childbirth, divorce or
All that sort of stuff.
I know a country—
Nothing but incoherent
People coast to coast.
And I’m one of them—
My incoherency is so
Bad I can’t write it.
*
I can’t write it down—
I can only live it out
Am I doomed to dinge?
I have the image—
From a not so old picture
A dead black poet.
I have this image—
Kato struggling on a floor
His brains bashed out.
*
One of the black thugs—
Who hated homosexuals
Bashed his head in bad.
Not with an ice-pick—
But with an everyday
Hammer smashing down.
Once, twice, maybe more—
That’s how bad masculinist
Macho rage can get?
*
Kato’s murder case—
Sort of like Pasolini
We won’t ever know.
No wonder I get—
A dinge writer’s block when I
Try to write it down.
It doesn’t feel like—
Langston’s Harlem Renaissance
Niggeratti chic.
*
It doesn’t look like—
Van Vechten sleek photographs
Smoke, Lilies and Jade.
It looks more like “now”—
Bishop Long & his cute boyz
Down in Atlanta.
It’s writing itself—
This unwritable novel
Right in front of me.
*
A life of its own—
And it’s changing all the time
Continuous dinge.
Tyrone had back-slid—
As Miss Baldwin sayz about
His Harlem church dayz.
My bad kid brother—
Started smoking cigarettes
And then wicked weed.
*
He’s the one that got—
Me loaded & down on my
Louche cocksucking knees.
His Negro penis—
Really liked my whitey lips
Talk about dinge queen.
It opened my eyes—
Just as much as it opened
My big fat fag lips.
*
I asked myself then—
Who is my half-brother &
Where does he come from?
The dinge world I was—
Encountering wasn’t just
Pitch-black plus pink head.
What did sex mean to—
Tyrone, where was it coming
From, hat did he want?
*
How did I end up—
Down on my knees this way
Sucking, rimming him?
Why did Tyrone taste—
So goddamn slimy & awful
Yet I wanted more?
These kind of questions—
Sound awfully stupid now
There were no answers.
*
The same things can be—
Posed about young Samoans
Who live with the blacks.
There in Holly Park—
Across from the Safeway store
At the old bus stop.
The slick rainy streets—
This noir city full of shades
And many races.
*
Intermixed & young—
Miscegenal Pacific
New Native Sons.
Blacks & Samoans—
Happening so very slow
Nonchalantly smooth.
Different shades of dinge—
Golden nuances, racial
Chiaroscuro boyz
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