Showing posts from June, 2006

Soul is the finest feeling

Soul is the finest feeling
body feels
without peeling

Tell me what your pain is like

I am going away to Provincetown, Mass., for four days tomorrow. Looking forward to art walks and beach reading. Here's another poem, before I hit the road.

Tell me what your pain is like.
When did it begin?
In the ear of bone or muscle
or the eye of skin?

Does it flicker, pulse or beat?
Burn or scald or sear?
Pinch or gnaw or cramp or crush?
Does it disappear?

Is it black as love’s rejection
in a lovers’ park?
Is it accidental as
a throwaway remark?

So tell me what your pain is like.
Please articulate.
No doctor, I’m your auditor
and your advocate.

To be an irresistible force

To be an irresistible force,
light entering the eye,
abstract from things without a loss,

the planet is a sphere;
peace is a wish;
and in a body of water here
soul is a fish.

Just Published

"The Connoisseur Inspects the Boys" has just appeared in the spring issue of Crate, published by the University of California, Riverside. That issue was edited by Neil Aitken and Adolfo Meija.

I went home to Queens this morning to collect my printer, and discovered that The Gay & Lesbian Review Worldwide has published "Glass Orgasm" in its July-August issue. Happy discovery! Based in Boston, Mass., thr review aims to "provide a forum for enlightened discussion of issues and ideas of importance to lesbians and gay men; to advance gay and lesbian culture by providing a quality vehicle for its best writers and thinkers; and to educate a broader public on gay and lesbian topics," according to its website. Nice to be considered one of gay culture's "best writers!"

Leaving Phoenix

[Removed for submission to journal]

Village Voice article on Kevin Aviance and others

What can I purchase with my body

What can I purchase with my body,
this gift certificate,
yellowing but not invalid
till the expiry date?

Pay for me, commands the trophy
in the twinkling mall.
Leave with me, sighs the token,
outside the capital.

I long to hear what the grave speaks
for tokens or for trophies.
It has already spoken what
the body certifies.

The body carries in each hand

The body carries in each hand
a black bag or a white.
A liter of clear Poland Spring
weighs down the right.

In the left hand, in the black bag,
age and bottled Rhine
demand uncorking to release
a run of wine.

I have no courage to leave my body

I have no courage to leave my body,
its panic and its pain.
Why I conduct this thought experiment
is to ascertain

if I live daily with the body
solely out of choice,
the soul's hypothesis of love,
or cowardice.

The cause of pain is cruelty

The cause of pain is cruelty,
concentration’s wire.
Bodhisattvas disagree;
they claim the cause, desire.

Biologists explain that genes
are really quite germane
while bombers show just what it means.
The effect is the same.

The body is an authority

The body is an authority
on heartache, burned or slashed.
The bottom of an amputee
drops like a bottle smashed.

The empty-chested veteran,
decorated with dread,
crumples like a soda can.
Despair, don’t you trash my dead!

It is enough for one to lose

It is enough for one to lose
all trust in nature's truth,
that one so anatomically Rob
should answer solely to Ruth.

Supper at le Monde

My body breathes, a glass of wine
tasted once or twice,
and teaches spirit to define
mineral, fruit and spice.

My body rises, leavened bread
of water, salt and yeast,
and sets before the soul the spread,
the sacrificial feast.

Uneaten bread will change to mold
and wine, by chance, may spill.
No maitre d’ on call to scold,
nor waiter, for refill.

Before the closing, drink and eat,
soul, learn to breathe and rise
singing of wine, on wings of wheat,
before the body dies.

Cut by an edge, the body hurts

Cut by an edge, the body hurts
another with its knives.
The second spears the third who shoots
the fourth, and none survives.

There is no safety in distance,
in diamond or decree,
no sanctuary within the fence
of anonymity.

Give me your name, beautiful Stranger,
though the hearts misgive,
come closer to the bodies' danger,
cut me and cry, forgive.

Holding my body in reserve

Holding my body in reserve,
like a firing pin,
I meet in a bolt-carrier group
love's magazine.

Thirty shells of passion, each
a silver kamikaze,
I, ballpeen and hammertoed,
kiss and kick to the sea.