I set out a cup of
black coffee as warning
to my digestive system
I write: there haven't been
any virgins since
nineteen sixty-nine
I say to paul as we
drive past the liberace
museum: when I grow up
i want to be a
customer cervix
associate
she likes it rough
narrative is toxic
remember to include
moans on alternating
audio channels
(I watch the bulge in
my pants carefully
adjusting for inflation
mohair suit and translucent
chickenskin; the top flat
she explains is russian birch
and the frame is yellow
poplar while i think
I have owned both male
and female slaves
sanctum sanctorum
the whole woman is
suspended by strings!
grammatical eros
mutatis mutandis
a couple kissing on
a darkened balcon
& two boys their hands
bent over the rail
of the overpass
The time has come to take a shit,
So I will go, and I will sit,
Upon my throne of plastic white,
Where I will think of what to write.
I will release my bowels there,
And then, without the slightest care,
I will return to the pee-cee,
Where I will soon thereafter see
What words will fill my wayward brain
(And then, perhaps, I'll shit again.)
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Yesterday I found out that
one of you & I have
the same psychiatrist.
It happened
completely by accident. In fact, I
came in for my last appointment
at
nine-thirty a.m. I had
just dropped off the car
at the mechanic's
so
I had nothing better to do
than to sit & wait
for Dr. B—
I'd rehearsed a little speech
the day before &
picked out a poem I'd
written a long time ago
to read to the
psychiatrist.
It was an old poem
but a good one. It was
about
sexual indiscretions
& immigration
(some of it was implied &
some of it
was written from a
retrospective point of view.
I sat at the busy psychiatrist's
office, when the receptionist
made a call,
"Yes, may I speak with
so & so,
(matter-of-fact
"Can you see Dr. B—
next week?
(named a time
—great!
& I thought that it
really is great
& I thought about friend
ships &
masturbation
& ships in the
harbour
& white Calgary
winter sky
& my fixed car
& lunch (What's
for lunch?
& the calendar
& the book of
gay poetry on
my desk at home
& the restaurants
on Davie St.
& my students
& my thoughts
& my father
& the past
& the people in
Vancouver
& the other
people
& this poem
(not yet
writ
ten
& my
ner
vous
psy
chi
at
ri
st
& the person
I'd shared him
with
&
&
&
& my name was called.
How good to be sane.
killed themselves?
i wonder considering most
of these "peoms
they like me wrote of alcohol putting
objects in anus & this(his precedes
allen ginsberg's sphincter by a year so
what?
heartbreak bumming it around somewhere
& hobohemian exoticism
of bar & madhouse
do they do it for
join the ranks of? how banal
he's dead is
paul celan up floating in the seine &
mayakovski strokes his temple with
a gun & plath
cooks breakfast
how can i love the masters who hate life?
are they my masters?
i will not worship at the feet
who cut & ran &
call to their lines hipster ingénu or
some days the five inch & half gash on
my forearm
(for all the talk makes difficult
to type
& that's how know for sure that I
am not a poet
thank god
piss stains on tan pants
are unavoidable
the sign is given
the annunciator plays
the first four notes of
das horst wessel lied
moving over low shaggy clouds
i heave and flow tragic indecision
i am a dragon/i am a kite
arrowhead made by obsidian
pastiche = paste shit
social psychology explains the holocaust
a fifth column for mubarak holdovers
wieczny skup palet
nosebleed at 30,000 ft.
watercolour on silk
a pattern of endless leaves
(oh. you're almost wearing me
my cock hardens
i think: jacob's ladder
lizards of the levant
photocopier codes
in march i tin apricots
& jeans (change comes from the chain
i watch the translated vase
all beauty and blue glaze
handles and spouts
littéralement the tip of rain
I wrote this in the air, somewhere between Fukuoka and Naha, Japan.
трое белых ждут терпеливо в очереди
меня отводят в сторону
сажают за стол
что привезли в этом списке
говорят мне на ломаном английском
а я на ломаном японском отвечаю
одежда шампунь апарель-фото
вдруг чиновника морда сучья
книги мои в рюкзаке замечает
тупо смотрит страж власти на стихи камингса
и видя женской груди рисунок
говорит мне а енто вон тут чаго
что за пошлость в сумку засунули
мой упакованный мир перевёрнут
(почему пуста бутыль лекарств
я—априорный рецидивист
(почему русский с канадским паспортом
но не найдено криминальных данных
ни марихуаны ни кокаина
укладывая барахло тленное
я сучкам в синем утверждаю—невинен
боку ва ии хито дес говорю
вопрошаю као ва варуй дес ка
а он мне удивлённо так джоббу дес
как будто невинен в блеске сапога
если тебе сучара это просто работа
то ты б не только гайджинов обыскивал
мне теперь не до твоего смол-тока
о японском пиве заискивающего
дура лекс, что сказать, но без улик
вышел я (мысленно отдав фашистам зиг хайль
а на улице линейка такси
и город и тёмная даль
