You know Blue was my favorite
so serene and moody
Through the soft cotton of clouds
I see silhouettes of blue penises
muscular shoulders and the slender
thighs of blue boy Gods.
When I’m six feet under
please please please
make a glory hole in my grave
so I can see Blue.
Eddy
Our Fathers who art not of Heaven
But who reside on earth--Flesh, bones, and death--
Sometimes they do not know love.
They know women. They know sex and baseball.
To them a “thing” between men
Must be hidden in smoky bars,
Shielded by amber bottles of beer,
Backslapping brotherhood, and dark shades to hide soft eyes.
Touches must be shoulder-level.
Comparisons are allowed over restroom urinals.
But then they quickly say, “My woman likes me this way.
Hand squeezing is allowed for dying buddies--Hugs for brothers, sometimes.
Eddy, you must resist kissing your Mother--
This is what our Fathers mean
When they say, “Act like a man.”
Yes you can cry on a battlefield
As you place your comrade’s severed hand
In a body bag.
But you can’t keep shedding tears the day after
And the day after
When you learn you are no longer the lighted vision
Your Father had when he lifted you and saw his symbol
Between your bowed legs, and named you his name-
When he knows you’d prefer to love the sun
Than battle the wind,
When he sees your Mother in your walk,
When he knows you will not be another
Dark shaded MacArthur who walks on water
And spits out the bones of men,
When he knows all of these things
And gives you his raised eyebrows--
Dance on like you dance,
Like a man stepping on burning tongues.
Published in the James White Review
Summer 1993
Soulfires 1996
Blue’s Books Open 24 Hours
The urinals have piss in them
the toilets a turd or two floating
The soap is yellow like hard cheese.
The stained tiled floor
is not good for old knees.
But the glory holes are busy
with tongues and assholes
seeking blue comfort.
Published at Velvet Mafia 2005
A Curse from God
“Father! Father,”
entreated the pie faced boy,
“I stretch I stretch
my hands to thee.”
Father looked down
upon the wormlike limbs
that rotted with gangrene
and he shook his head and
stuck out his tongue.
“Haw! Haw! Haw!
Thou suffer, because
thy mouth knew and suckled men
in their secret places.
Did you not hear your preacher?”
“Oh Father,” Pie Face answered,
“I heard through grape vines
tea leaves, and bellicose
microphones all of your Ministers.
But when night closed off the day
like an executioner’s black curtain,
Your minister’s mouths sought mine.
Even you, Father,
put your miter aside for me.”
Father answered, “well lad
someone must pay the price
for my pleasure. You are
the chosen one. But I will
give you a prayer to offer me daily:
“Lord. Lord. Fill this hollow bowl
that is my belly with blood
So that I might have
an offering of thanks
for your mercy and grace
when I get to heaven. Amen.
No Satisfaction
At eleven o’clock
Edgar naked and black
bathes himself with moonlight,
gently brushes his shoulders
with rose petals,
fans with palm leaves.
He is not satisfied.
His soul is hot
He rubs thorns across his nipples
until they bleed red tears,
sprinkles crushed pepper
into his open asshole.
In his orgasmic fever
he whispers the names of God
from Allah to Yahweh
then remembers it is not Sunday.
He puts on his evening gown.
It is gold and glittering.
He girds his loins with
the skins of rainbow Diamondbacks,
wraps slithering cobras
around his hooves
and covers his eyes with dark facades.
He steps out.
Watch out, boys,
Edgar steps out.
Whirling blue balls greet him
When he strides into
the Black Platinum.
Men and pseudo men
drawn to the gold
quiz him. His paradox
is an aphrodisiac.
His malice is disguised as sex appeal.
Eyes pry open
his long legs--legs where
soldiers and horses have traveled
for decades. Who could know this?
The pancake batter on his face
distorts his history.
He throws out his hook hands
that sigh with rubies and emeralds.
He lures one chicken.
He is young and doesn’t know
how many miles he must walk
from his shaved head
to his lizard skinned boots.
He just knows his dick is hard
and that’s making him hard up.
If he doesn’t get any satisfaction
he may have to take his gat
shopping at Seven Eleven and trade a few bullets
for blood and Winston’s
And how long does that rush last
he asks himself?
Edgar takes him home.
His room is dark
but he pulls down shades.
Their clothes drop to the floor
like splattering blood.
Edgar had hoped for prolonged stories
written by traveling fingers.
He bites the ear of the chicken
to slow him down,
rolls him on his back,
and his tongue bathes him and lips
suckle him in orifices
his Mama has forgotten.
The young buck moans out love songs
that mimic whispering saxophones.
This from a boy whose longest
conversation was “Yo, wha’s up, Gee?”
But Edgar has him singing hallelujah praises.
Edgar is not satisfied
He envies his pleasure--
his selfish young-man pleasure.
He sees him rolling off
to sleep after dropping seeds
on his thighs and sheets.
For meanness and to make it all
about him, he bites off the boy’s dick.
When all blood and electrical spasms
drain from his body
He stuffs him one piece at a time
up his ass
until his belly swells.
The next day he calls his Mama
and reports how pregnant he is.
He says he is happy
he is going to be a Mother
and how he can’t wait to
birth his baby and dip
&
nbsp; him in scalding water.
The Blue Sea
Still waters churn deep
Sometimes all is swell with Madam Sea.
Then her hormones
Of whale piss and fish jelly
Get the best of her.
She comes ashore to shop
Her glittering eyes roll past your window
You vomit minnows
Before she smothers you in her black cloak
Then she’s calm again.
Crying Shame
Mother, would you weep
if you knew your son rose
from his sick bed of antiseptic lilies
threw off his death linen
and cruised the corners
looking for his father--
the father you drove from your bosom
with words stuck to ice picks?
You wonder why your son drills
his tongue through your breast
as his lips do their surrogate duty.
Mother, he’s only mimicking your ice pick.
You should have buried that weapon
deep in your thighs, closed your eyes
to your man’s infidelities, let him know the son
who hungers so much for his callused hands.
The boy lurks on street corners
with lifelines dangling from his arms like worms,
looking into all cars even hearses,
for eyes, lips, and hands that mirror his.
Night Clothes
The best time to be naked is 3:00 am
Black velvet skin is the proper attire
As you stand on your balcony
Stroking the night—
A little drink, a little smoke, a little lonely.
There ought to be other men
Standing on their porches too
At you.
Published at Velvet Mafia 2005
anonymous men
There is blue joy
in solitude,
sweetness in the lonely soft night
that drapes the bones of black men.
I dance in this solitude.
I carry wrapped in my heart to my home
a willowy young body.
We make love in solitary
Later,
we kiss under the blue morning canopy
and carry off pieces of blue joy
in our deep pockets.
Perhaps
Perhaps we’re just taking
up space in each other’s empty
wounded hearts.
Perhaps you’ll let me pull
down the straps of your sea blue
overalls and allow my fingers to crawl
all over your brown earth.
Perhaps my bed is just right for us
and our bodies will fold together
like fingers intermingling.
Perhaps we will not annihilate
each other with tongues.
I want your lies, your smoke,
your children splattering the sheets,
my chest and chin.
Perhaps I’ll let you bury me
and live on for another twenty years,
soaking your old bones
in my memories.
Published at Velvet Mafia 2005
Hypocrisy
A misguided soul said to me,
“AIDS cures fags.”
I whispered softly into his ear
with my flickering tongue,
“You’ve been misinformed, My Sweetness,
AIDS cures hypocrisy.
It brought to light all of your afflictions.
I’ve seen you circling the weed-choked corners
picking from the crop of tattered boys
in the fields littered with pieces of red glass
and oxtail bones. I peeped you
on your knees in the dark underbelly of
‘STUDZ 24 HOURS’ and you were not praying
to one god, but to three gods who towered over you
with pants twisted around slender ankles as
their future generations oozed down your chin.
On Blue Monday, the sun and me caught you
tipping out the wounded red side door
of the Men’s Health Clinic.
Your dark shades did not obscure my eyes
or the sparkling iridescent pills in your glass vessels.
Now you’re cruising cemeteries
looking for a resting-place.
Had you told yourself the truth at twenty,
you would not be dying from hypocrisy at thirty.
From the Anthology Mighty Real 2010
Secrets
Red fire rages
Way down below
In our bellies.
Watch us consume
Ourselves with deception.
Our black smoke
Hides our truth
Published in Soulfires 1996