Monday, May 11, 2009

Breaking Thru Darkness

Breaking Thru Darkness
—for Anne Sexton

The Darke Art

“A woman who writes
feels too much—those
trances and portents!”
—Anne Sexton,
The Black Art

A man with a woman—
Trapped inside—makes a
Lousy poet—a writer who
Can’t bear children—who
Thinks she’s—clairvoyante
But really isn’t—a spy who
Came in—from the cold but
Not really—I am that boy

A man who writes—
Knows too much—such mad
Spells and—weird fetishes
Erections—that go nowhere
Completely lost—mechanically
A writer—essentially a crook
Faking his way—through love
I am that man—that woman

Never loving myself—
Full of paradoxical—prissiness
Ashamed of myself—from the
First grade—when self-loathing
Began with—a bead-reading
Madame Sosostris—infamous
Fag-bashing—heartless bitch
Giving me—a peptic ulcer

Maybe If Perhaps

“Someone is dead—
Even the trees know it”
—Anne Sexton, Lament

Maybe if perhaps—
I’d been a better—belly-dancer
Curved & swayed—my bulging
Beer-gut—with a little more class
Wiggled a little more—lasciviously
Craned my neck—more conveniently
My scarfs—more coyly chartreuse
Things—would’ve been different

Maybe if perhaps—
I’d been more calm—charming
Done the dirty dishes—sooner
Been less greedy—every night
Maybe then—he would’ve been
My lover—a little longer rather
Than reverting—devolving back
Into girlfriends—hetero-reality

But it’s done—and over with
It’s all used up—the sun’s going
Down—all the way down again
Like I used to do—slick and
Sleek as—an angora sweater
Slipping it on—like Ed Wood Jr.
Doing Glen—or Glenda again
Unaccustomed—to anything else

Letter Written During A May
Monsoon Rain Storm

“It’s snowing—
grotesquely snowing”
—Anne Sexton,
Letter Written During
A January Northeaster

It’s raining—
Grotesquely raining—again
But why should—I complain?
The rain has—a calmness in it
No telephone calls—or bills
Only a douchebag—dreariness

I’ve invented—this lie
The days are—all the same
They’re all Mondays—dreary
Rainy bothersome—tiring
Monsoon Mondays—not worth
Schmoozing—or lying about

I lie—quiet as a crucifix
Bent & rusty—like a horseshoe
Ignorant of—wordy possibilities
I’m a row of poplars—freezing
In the cold rain—supposedly
The Pineapple Express—not

I’m fading—like an old movie
I’m going, going—going gone
Waiting like—some lost luggage
I’m an imposter—not a writer
My nicotine moustache—stinks
Like all the dead—I pick my nose

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