Thursday, July 30, 2009

Curt Siodmak

Curt Siodmak

“Poetas troyanos”
—Roberto Bolaño
“With the Flies,”
The Romantic Dogs

Curt Siodmak—
All that was yours
Is gone now

No more temples
Film palaces movies
In the moonlight

You’re free—
Like Children of
The Night

Castro Theater

Castro Theater

“I stepped out of
the last show onto
empty streets”
—Roberto Bolaño
“The Last Savage,”
The Romantic Dogs

I stood—under the marquee
Of the Castro Theater—
Letting the movie—dissolve
Slowly beneath red white blue
Lights—oozing on & off

I was still—a werewolf
Lon Chaney Jr—in the last
Convulsions of becoming
A man again—no longer
A Hollywood moonlit wolf

I had—nowhere to go
So for awhile—I cruised
Castro—Lafayette Park
Along with all the other
Packs of romantic dogs

I’m here now—I said
With all the other wolves
The Children of the Night—
As Bela said in Dracula
Nothing else mattered?

Pacific Heights


Pacific Heights

“My poem will be
a fantasy about
living in a high-rise
flat, on the edge
of a dirty industrial
town”—Carol Ann Duffy,
“The Literature Act,”
The Other Country

Pacific Heights—view of the Bay. Golden Gate Bridge—sloping down to North Beach. On one side Japantown—on the other my apartment on Sacramento. Across from Lafayette Park—California Pacific Med Center. Looming over it all where—I get my Wolfboy facelift. The House of Frankenstein—where I prowl for new blood. Here in this—sullen City of Nacht und Nebel.

Hippy San Francisco

“Young child—old child
Be all right—on a SF night”
—Richard Burton and the Animals,
San Franciscan Nights

I wish I were—back then. Sixties in—the Castro District. Feeling—cold Transylvania air. Thousands—of miles away. On my face—here in SF. Where my Wolfboy—roots and branches languish. Here’s where my home—is Wolfsschanze

Lunar Fixation

“He stood in a clearing
reading his verse out
loud in his wolfy drawl—a
paperback in his hairy paw”
—Carol Ann Duffy
“Little Red-Cap,”
The World’s Wife

Here’s where—I wrote & worked. Enjoying long lycanthropic evenings—in my Sacramento apartment. The full moon—my Lunar fixations. So that when—animals ran out. From the bushes in the park—I resisted that old Transformation urge. That Ovidian rush—of my blood downward. Not biting the dog—cat or rat. Not gnawing—on its gimpy leg. Screaming, horrified, shocked—that a tourist—could be a wolf?

Coit Tower

“a dark thorny place”
—Carol Ann Duffy
“Little Red-Cap,”
The World’s Wife

I liked to—midnight slouch. Down in the woods—beneath Coit Tower. Then thru giant old Victorian mansions—up the hill by Lafayette Park. Overlooking North Beach—City Lights book temples. Invisible lines—reaching out to Moloch. Listening to Howl—at Midnight years later. Then—morning seagulls. The smell of saltwater air—slowly getting the idea. How strong it always felt—Castle of Frankenstein and Son of Dracula. Seducing me back—into myself again.

Eucalyptus Evenings

“breath of the wolf
in my ear”
—Carol Ann Duffy
“Little Red-Cap,”
The World’s Wife

Dark and shiny—the grass. Too wet for dew—it’s blood. From last night’s homicide. There in the pale blue Azaleas—next to the curb. The birds singing—singing twittering so gay. Wherever I turn I have to—look askance. Because all I see—is a face with its throat ripped out. Still gurgling to itself in a—gone dead way.

Lycanthropy Lite

“Reality is a hallucination
caused by a lack of drugs”
—The Urban Dictionary

In the photo—a turbaned boy. And a snake—woven basket. In the twilight—wreckage of some old Empire—Orientalism? It’s a long way—from Persia to Poughkeepsie to the Pacific. And a long time since Rome—but boys, snakes—and wolves. Have been around—a long time. The same with—old Gypsy tales. Lycanthropic urban carnage—a Fortune Teller’s opulent carriage moving thru time like The Wizard of Oz. Rimbaud’s hoarse burlesque—the Rubes of Paris. Carnivalesque sideshows—the Penguin Boy. Bearded Lady—Johnny Eck the Half-Boy. Maria Baclanova—quite the Trapeze Queen. Lover of Hercules—hated by the Freaks. Mardi Gras Zip and Pip—Thirties Carnivàle.


Ben Hawkins (Nick Stahl) in his puce kimono—falling down the stairs. Professor Lodz’s trailer—blind voyant. Bearded Lady’s lover—Samson’s traveling carnival. Hawkins—young male Madame Sosostris. Famed clairvoyant boy—roving with a band of magicians & wizards. Telepathic freaks—roustabouts. Possessed by unusual abilities—inexorably weird plotlines…Thanks to—Professor Lodz


The Moly—sets me free. I watch Sean Penn—playing Harvey Milk. The Castro—classic old Film Palace. It was all—a movie. Hollywood bright against—a white screen. Looking down the aisles at all the Talking heads—all the young ones of the gay generation. Sailorboys of Ulysses—ashore again. Circe waiting in—the winged alleys. The Castro and the Haight like—Circe’s island on the way home. Thom Gunn’s Moly—protecting him


The opaque red poppy-flower—coldly checks me out. I trundle down Fillmore past Gerry—to lunch. Raw fish turns me on—live octopus eyeballs. Down past old Victorian mansions—on Buchanan. Remodeled—separate apartments. One of them—with my publisher. His storage locker—full of books. Bound for pulping—gay renaissance over?

Jack Spicer / Charles Reznikoff

“Serial composition—
one detail to the next”
—Charles Bernstein,
“Reznikoff’s Nearness,”
My Way: Speeches Poems

It’s been raining—for three days. The faces in the crowd—cold fish. On a plate—depressing sushi… The cold wind—and black fog. The noise of wolves—in the forest. It all reminds me—of my chicken boyhood. Eternal youth—in the Balkans. Riding in the back—Ouspenskya driving. Our gypsy van—town to town. Once owned—by George Zucco. The Great Professor Bruno Lampini—continuing the long tradition. Weird Carnivàle wizards—The Wizards of Oz. Professor Ernst Lodz—Carnivàle queen. But who can forget—Bruno Lampini in The House of Frankenstein (1945)? The way George Zucco—screamed at the very end.

Professor Lodz

Lodz discovers—an American expatriate. Henry Scudder—lost in a Lemberg battlefield. Saving Scudder turns out—to be fortuitous for Lodz. When he becomes aware—of the American's uncanny powers. Besides incipient psychokinesis—Scudder can read minds. Divine the past and future—by touching objects. The two traveling—together. Performing for the wealthy—in European salons. From Belgrade to Paris—from Rome to New York. Scudder decides to leave the act—Lodz says no. Tries to stop him—coveting his partner's power. Scudder fulfills Lodz's wish—gifting him with psychic power. While exacting a terrible price—Lodz's sight gets traded. Blinded—for third eye insights. Bitter, Lodz lives together—with Lila Villanueva the Bearded Lady. Making a deal with Management—a pursuit Lodz continues. Even—beyond death itself.

Lila Villanueva the Bearded Lady

Lila Villanueva—the "Bearded Lady of Brussels." Born in Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana—to a circus Family in 1890. Given their genetic predisposition—the hirsute family performing in a circus. Under the stage name "Villalobos"—literally “The House of Wolves.” Lila, her two brothers—Oscar and Raoul and her parents traveling throughout the Southeast. Spurning the freak-show tents—for the high-wire act. The "Flying Villalobos"—soon signed with Ringling Brothers Circus—traveling the international Circuit for five years. Then Oscar fell to his death—Copenhagen in 1905. A tragedy from which the "Flying Villalobos Family”— never recovered. Her father—shattered by the loss of his eldest son. Committing suicide—three years later.

Paco and Gordito
At sixteen—already graced with a thick, silky beard. Lila marries—a ventriloquist, Paco Soza & his dummy. In her own words—"Paco was beautiful, but that Fucking dummy, Gordito—drove me nuts." After less than six weeks, the marriage is annulled. Over the next fifty years—Lila marries over nineteen times. "Twenty if you count Gordito!!!" But her one true Love—was Professor Bruno Lodz. By all accounts—she never emotionally recovered. From his strange Disappearance—in late 1934.

Ben Hawkins

My act was to play—The Kimono Kid. It was a standard act—like The Penguin Boy. All I had to do was simply—let the Rubes gawk. Lodz used me as his medium—to size them up. Training me to be telepathic—a piece of cake. Lola distracted them—got them thinking dirty. Bifurcating their brains—lovely split cerebellums. They’d come backstage—for more guidance. I got to wear a gold mask—over my face. When I made my appearance—down the aisles. The hush in the Tent—crowded with faces. Like a movie star’s entrance—my painted lips silent. My painted eyelids—gauche goosebumps. The Mexican boyz—stops playing around. Lifting their guitar eyes—kissing the air. Everyone feels Duende. The paths are—deserted as usual. Below the city lights—the flow of traffic. The broad wash of—Pacific Ocean air. Here under the stars—Ginsberg saw Moloch. SF Literary Renaissance—followed by others. Beatniks, hippies—slackers, gays…


“flying about
and about”
—Charles Reznikoff,
“Autobiography: Hollywood”
The Poems of Charles Reznikoff

The gnats—swarming again. Every summer—front lawn celebrities. The evening coolness—jerky geometric. Figure-eight movements—a kind of moveable labyrinth—Mückenschwarm. Many dozens—of glittering gnats. Crowding forward—sleek to schmooze. Trembling circles—so nervous. Extravagantly carousing—fractal love. For a whole hour—rapidly moving. Raving, delirious—silently whirling. Shivering with joy—against death. Their kingdoms—doomed like Sodom. Thrones heavy with gold—instantly gone. Leaving no trace—just a façade.

Moonlight Mon Amour

The moonlight—so pleasant. Like the silence—of dead pyramids. Underground crypts—Pretorius toasting death. Boris Karloff—smokes a cigar. Isn’t life just the pits—Pretorius quips. A cigar, wine—amidst the Shrouds. A good epitaph—I suppose for me: “He loved the spectral moonlight.” Better still—“He loved it too much.” The Dead—if only they could speak. Saying “You’ll get tired of it too—even the moonlight, honey.”

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Interview with a Werewolf

Interview with a Werewolf

“wolf’s lair
better beware”
—Carol Ann Duffy
“Little Red-Cap,”
The World’s Wife

Bissell: What’s it like? Being a teenage—werewolf? Being human—one minute? And then being—Wolfboy?

Wolfboy: I don’t know…I don’t really—want to know. I don’t want—to remember I hurt when I—think about it

Bissell: That’s okay we don’t have—to talk about it. What do you want—to talk about? Girls—sex in the gymnasium?

Wolfboy: [Silence]

Bissell: I know kid…being bi-polar—is hard I know—I used to be young—but you’re—young & beautiful

Wolfboy: [Silence]

Bissell: Being “bi” isn’t easy—like being a—teenage werewolf. There’s a problem—you enjoy it. It’s being Human—that’s the Pits.

Wolfboy: [Silence]

Bissell: Yes, being Wolfboy—that’s what you are—a Wolfboy—being merely human—that’s the thing—how can you like being human—after being Wolf?

Wolfboy: That’s right…Being a wolf isn’t what’s horrible. It’s being human again—that’s the awful part—I hate being human…

Bissell: Being human is crummy—it’s not the only way to live though. Remember—being Wolfboy means—all your senses—they’re alert and alive!!!

Wolfboy: When I’m Wolfboy—all the way Wolf—and not human—then I’m like Lon Chaney Jr. tiptoeing through—the moonlight—I dig it!!! That’s when I’m—Bela Lugosi the Fortune teller—Gypsy vagabond always on the move—along with Maria Ouspenskya—my mother of the wolves. When I’m Wolfboy—that’s when the Forest—has a thousand ears. And the River—a million eyes. And the Darkness—a Voice.......

Bissell: What about Landon? When you’re Michael Landon—the troubled hot-tempered cute LA teenager—you like trouble?

Wolfboy: I don’t prowl for it. Trouble prowls for me—I’m game. Just a plaything—Trouble trumps everything. Troubling moods rule me—it’s a state of wolf mind… Like when Lon Chaney—kills Bela. Once-bitten—that’s when Trouble begins. Becomes a way of life—death. See my palm—the Pentagram?

Bissell: Death hypnotizes you?

Wolfboy: Yeah. It drives me nuts.

Bissell: Bright lights—loud music?

Wolfboy: Yeah, that’s what really—pisses me off fast. Makes me jumpy—turns me into a Werewolf—hungry for instant revenge on anything.

Bissell: Wagner and I like to hypnotize you—in the nude. Strapped down—on a table. You’re so—hot-tempered…

Wolfboy: Being wolf is a wet-dream

Bissell: So when Wagner & I hypnotize & age regress you? That’s like being—deep inside a Lucid Dream?

Wolfboy: Yeah

Bissell: And when Wagner & I inject you with drugs? When we strap—you down On a stainless steel table…

Wolfboy: [Silence]

Bissell: Like in morgues?

Wolfboy: Yeah

Bissell: So it’s like—being dead—except you’re alive lying there—turned on?

Wolfboy: [Silence]

Bissell: Tell me about it The Land of Death—what’s it’s like? Some weird—kind of dream? A long time ago—faraway? Or super in the Now?

Wolfboy: Yeah

Bissell: So that’s where you do your—Lon Chaney Thing. In a Land of Gypsy Time—caravans journeying thru—Transylvania & the Balkans?

Wolfboy: [Silence]

Bissell: Are you always nude? Do you dream about—slinking thru The Black Forest—in the moonlight without clothes? Like Bella & Lon—the Wolf Men?

Wolfboy: [Silence]

Bissell: Why did you bite Wagner? There in—the laboratory last night? Did something happen—before he could strap you down—on the table?

Wolfboy: Yeah, the telephone rang. It was too loud—for my wolf ears. The same with—the bell in the gym. It drove me mad—homicidal for love.

Bissell: That’s why you’re hiding? Talking to me—on your cell-phone…It’s easier on your ears—your psyche? No loud noises—no silver bullets?

Wolfboy: [Silence]

Bissell: So you’re—really Wolfboy—now? You don’t need hypnosis—or drugs—bells or whistles?

Wolfboy: [Silence]

Bissell: No bells at school—no telephones ringing—no way to trigger Terrible Werewolfery—Teenage Lycanthropic Regression?

Wolfboy: Teenage what? Like I said—I don’t remember anything. I’m in love with—the Moonlight and Midnight howling. I like to eat out—Evelyn Ankers

Bissell: [Silence]

Wolfboy: In fact you kinda—remind me of—Evelyn Ankers. She’s my favorite—Scream Queen. Ever saw her in—Son of Dracula?

Bissell: Yes, Wolfboy. That movie with—Lon Chaney Jr as Count Alucard—Dracula spelled backwards—Louisiana plantations—swamp vampire love…

Wolfboy: Yeah, that’s the one. With Louise Allbritton—as Bride of Dracula—dead heiress to the Family fortune—lovely swamp quickies—bayou love

Bissell: Yes, that neat scene where Dracula—glides thru the Swamp above the ghostly fog. To meet Louise—waiting for him on the bank.

Wolfboy: It came out in 1943—the year I was born—back when Hollywood came out with all those Grade-B—horror classics.

Bissell: So you like movies? Movie theaters—flicks in the dark? You like to dream—dream you’re wolfboy. Hollywood Horror—that lovely noir world?

Wolfboy: [Smiles]

Bissell: I can see why. Easier on your eyes—late at night. The full moon—much to bright. Staying inside—the silver screen…

Wolfboy: [Silence]

Bissell: Yes, I hate sunlight too—I stay inside during the day. I used to live by Half Moon Bay—the lazy light of the Pacific Ocean—luxurious lunar undertows

Wolfboy: [Silence]

[Bissell—speculates to himself on Greek semantics—playing a role in Wolfboy’s fatal relationships with the Full Moon—Teen Werewolfery… The coining of—certain names. For example—Greek mē "not" and Phōs "light"—philos "lover" suggesting—"not a lover of light"—parody of Lucifer—"light-bearer"—common Satan epithet—so that the original mephoto—to mephist Latin mephitis—"pungent"—Phosto "Faust"—yielding "Not Faust-loving"—Hebrew Mephistoph—“Destroyer—of The Good"—Mephiz "liar"—tophel “destroyer”—Lycanthropy and Light (moonlight)—Wolfboy—and werewolf movies—Mephistopheles—the Dark Double Wolfboy—and savage doppelganger]

Wolfboy: [Silence]

Maria Ouspenskya

Maria Ouspenskya
—for Anne Sexton

Under my bed—pitch-black
She waits—and waits for me
Under my eyes—shadowed
From lack of sleep—she waits

Maria’s waiting—she’s waiting now
Madame Doppelganger—my sister
Madame Doppelganger—my lover
Why are Doubles—so subversive?

When the truth—spills out
Like a can of beans—Maria laughs
She hangs up the phone—Sorry
Wrong number—she tells them

When someone—makes love or
Flushes the toilet—she smirks
My other—she puts on a cocktail dress
Then pretends—she’s the real me

When I prick my finger—she kisses it
Maria laughs—when I’m serious
She’s glum—when I’m gay
She's gay—when I'm glum

Her otherness—makes her clairvoyant
She can read my mind—my thoughts
She wants me—to become her
But wouldn’t that—end our dialog?

The Late Show

The Late Show

“The moon has come back
into my poems”
—David Trinidad
“Crack of old ice,”
The Late Show

Fay Helm—in the middle
Of having Bela Lugosi do her
Fortune, Tarot cards & Palms
Bursts into tears—brushing
Aside her—wolfbane bouquet
Standing up—suddenly after
Seeing a deadly pentagram
There on Lugosi’s forehead

Bela Lugosi—stoned worst than
Alan Ladd—or Michael Jackson
Getting that headache—as the
Full moon shines down—thru
The evil Black Woode canopy—
Bela in gypsy drag—bandana
Crescent earrings—what’s in
That pipe—he’s smoking?

Evelyn Ankers—Lon Chaney
Flirting in the—darke woods
Outside the—gypsy camp
Hearing Helms—scream out
It’s Lugosi—werewolf killer
Driven mad—by full moonlight
Gnawing on Helm’s—dead body
Especially her—pouty pussy

Lon Chaney Jr—finally himself
Playing the Wolf Man—so campy
Famous Universal—movie star
No longer held back by his
Disapproving father—Browning
Lon Chaney Senior—silent film
King Pins of the Thirties—think
Freaks, Dracula—Horror classics

Evelyn and Lon—actually loathing
Each other—her monster movie
Scream queen roles—like pulp
Fiction to her—her new dressing
Room—used by Lon Chaney and
Broderick Crawford—for boozy
Binges and Wrestling matches—
Furniture hanging—from ceiling

Louise Allbritton—wealthy Southern
Plantation heiress—slightly dizzy
Even more dizzy—after Count
Alucard brings—her back from the
Land of Dead Doornails—down under
Her interest in the—‘40s Occult
Apropos for the—Weird Times
Deep South death—Bayou romance

Samuel Arkoff’s—Sexploitation Inc
Opened up by—all those Drive-Ins
And Baby Boomers—with Wheels
Passionate Snake Pits—across USA
I Was a Teenage—Drive-In Sex-Fiend
Adolescent erotics—plus Horror Flicks
Perfect movies—for Perfect Storms
Across America—America dreamed

Monday, July 27, 2009

I Was A Teenage Werewolf

I Was A Teenage Werewolf

Michael Landon—survives the cops
Like Lon Chaney Jr—survives his dad
Beating the shit—out of him with his
Silver wolf’s head cane—so bloody

Teenage werewolves—are eternal
They can run—the two-minute mile
Hypnotic regression and blood lust
Talk about—Sock Hop of the Damned!!!

Teenage Angst—was in back then
James Dean—Rebel Without a Cause
And that other—Arkoff Cult Classic
Blood of the Vampire—Lesbos remake

B-Movie Horror Classics—so cool
Just think of all—the hot-blooded
Teen Werewolves—in the Closet!?!

No one can make—them Stop!!!
They’ve got Puberty—Rights & Wrongs
It’s been that way—since 1957
Back when our teeth—were so long!!!

Michael Landon

Michael Landon
—for WCW

so much
depends on
michael landon
young werewolf

sitting in the
gym howling
at a pair
of tits

Wolfboy (1941)
—for Edward Field

sometimes you meet
a guy and fall in love—
you take him—to a bar
and buy him a drink

you like his wolfish eyes
and his wolfish legs
and afterwards you make
love and he bites you bad

or maybe at the YMCA
at night with you in the pool
a wolf stalks you in the
dark—a young cute wolf

think of—lon chaney jr
or maybe—michael landon
or better yet—listen
to them softly whimper

the night—you meet
in a dark alley—a bar
his face is—full of pain
he’s exceptionally hirsute

you say “what’s the matter?”
and he runs away from
your pentagram tattoo
plus your silver bullet

Gypsy Love
—for Edward Field

wolfboy lives—with gypsies
chained and tied up—in the back
of maria ouspenskya’s rustic
gypsy wagon each night

a path of cadavers—follows
the gypsy gang—as they wander
from town to town—telling
fortunes—playing violins

hearing his approach—the men
welcome him—he hunts for
deer, rabbits—sometimes even
a cute girl—tender virgins

wolfboy hunts—never knows
kindness—only bloodthirsty
urges to kill & devour—how
awful to be—slave to instincts

believing only in pentagrams
and full moons—he devours
girlish shish-ka-bob raw

then he’s—chained again
in the back of—maria’s cabin
to sleep it off—naturally
he enjoys—being a wolfboy

The Bride of Wolfboy
—for Edward Field

evelyn ankers—such a
beautiful pin-up movie star
known as the scream queen
of horror flicks—beautiful

long chaney wrestles with
her husband richard denning
in her Hollywood dressing room
both of them—totally drunk

the full moon—is bright
gypsies dance—by firelight
violins play madly—the music
of slinky snake like—accordions

beneath—the gypsy moon
evelyn ankers—runs away
with michael landon—leaving
handsome denning behind

who knows—what happens
soon the vagabonds—are gone
leaving nothing—behind but
clean-picked—village girl bones

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

An American Werewolf in Japantown

An American Werewolf in Japantown

“The wolf, I knew,
would lead me deep
into the woods”
—Carol Ann Duffy,
“Little Red-Cap,”
The World’s Wife

Something—happened to me
When I was in Japantown—last weekend
Taking a walk down the Hill—from Pacific Heights
I met myself—in the Kinokuniya Bookstore

I met my Other—American Wolfboy
My Wolfboy Double—Hippy Sixties USA
The smell of Eucalyptus—Patchouli oil
Craving sushi—starved for Lupus Love

The Golden Gate Bridge—view from the Hill
The smell of clean ocean air—from the Bay
Strolling thru Lafayette Park—that evening
Funny how nothing’s changed—except me

Bringing memories back—now to 2009
Earlier times—SF Gay Literary Renaissance
Giving readings—gay bookstores in the Castro
And now my Double—all these years later

Finding myself standing—stoned & dazed
By the Kinokuniya Bookstore—in Japantown
My favorite haunt—whenever I’d visit SF
Staying at the Miyako Inn—enjoying myself

The Bowling Alley—long gone now
The soothing sounds—muffled balls and pins
As I drank tea—and cruised all the cute
Young Japanese boys after school…

Funny how things—come and go
Literary Renaissances—a long time ago
The Boys of Michelangelo—how they
Come and go—come and go

There I was—in Japantown USA
Looking at myself—in the store window
Of the Kinokuniya Bookstore—looking
At myself—a relic from the Sixties

Standing there—calmly observing myself
Tilting back my head—for a minute or two
Pretending to doze—my eyelids closed
Empty with no questions—to ask myself

Other than knowing—myself dead
Deader than a doornail—in a coffin or
Stuffed in a vase—in some mausoleum
My Wolfboy ashes tossed—into the Bay

Nobody would say—nodding knowingly
A great poet has died—we’ll miss him
And so will—the great Male Muse up
There on gay Olympus—weeping tears!!!

Hardly my dears—let’s get real…
What’s standing there—in the Kinokuniya
Bookstore window—isn’t Miss Whitman or
Allen Ginsberg—or Hart Crane

I’m not one of them—I never was
I never could be—I didn’t want to be
Naropa bored me—Boulder waste of time
Allen Ginsberg’s—sharp transgressive mind

Stonewall came and went—just like all
The gay bookstores—have all gone kaput
Proposition Hate—continues to disenchant
Mormon boyfriends—they’re so cute

Sam Hamill—Rexroth’s Zen Brother
Continues to rally—all the Antiwar Poets
Refuses to take Tea—in the Rose Garden
We all end up—Trolls under a Bridge

All my gay friends—they’re gone now
Dead or assimilated—Metrosexual Inc
Metropolis USA—everybody’s married
I’m just a lowly Zit—on the Zeitgeist

Standing here now—in Japantown
In front of the—Kinokuniya Bookstore
What do I know now—I didn’t know then?
What did I know then—I don’t know now?

Other than being—bitchy & disillusioned?
Sun and Moon Press—pulped into oblivion
Thom Gunn gone—man with night sweats
And me—just another American Werewolf?

Here I am—locked up in Coit Tower
Like Marilyn Monroe—in Niagara Falls
Sprawled on the floor—my purse scattered
Trapped with my—distraught killer husband
What happened—to the story?
We were never—meant to fail
It's not meant—to be this lonely
We were never—meant to fail

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Teenage Trouble

Teenage Trouble

“A troubled teenager
seeks help through
hypnotherapy, but
his evil doctor uses
him for regression
experiments that
transform him into
a rampaging werewolf.”

Am I a wolf? Am I a man?
All I know—I’ve got the cramps bad!!!
My hormones—they say one thing
My girlfriend—says another

My father—says humor them.
Make them laugh—but don’t cry
That way—they’ll leave you alone
Surely Big Daddy’s—always right?

After all—Malcolm Atterbury
He’s the calm—fatherly type
Tells me to—cook the pork-chop
Not eat it raw—like hamburger

And then there’s—Walt Bissell
Who plays—Dr. Alfred Brandon
A pretty nice guy—even though
I think he’s got—the hots for me

I don’t like—hypnotic regression
It makes me feel—too Animal
I’m too hot-headed—anyway
Why should I—go all the way?

I’m just Tony Rivers—another
American teenager—mixed-up
Snake Pit Drive In—greaser
So what—if I get a little high?

I comb back my hair—with Vitalis
I’ve got a ducktail—like Presley
My Elvis the Pelvis—sex-drive
Won’t stop—I’m so high-strung!!!

Just ask my girlfriend—Yvonne
Yvonne Slime—she be so fine
I get her loaded—on Hashish
Dr. Brandon—gets me the best

She closes her eyes—extra-tight
She doesn’t want to—see me
The way I look—when I boogie
All-American—Teenage Werewolf!!!

Yvonne likes it—deep inside though
Like some girls—she gets off on it
So does Bissell—and his Assistant
Dr. Hugo Wagner—Opera Queens

Who knows—what really happens
When Bissell and Wagner—hypnotize me
All I know is—they age regress me back
To the primeval—primitive meat

I don’t mind though—them a gay couple
As long as I don’t—remember much
About being Lucky Pierre—inside a
Ménage-a-trois—ham sandwich!?!

The neat part—about being Wolfboy
Is when Vladimir Sokoloff—the pansy
Weak-wristed nelly—janitor whispers
Something in my ear—about Love

He reminds me—of Peter Lorre
My favorite Hollywood fag—starring
In Casablanca—with Humphrey Bogart
Lorre and Conrad Veidt—such queens

How I wish—I were Ingrid Bergman
Falling in love—in wartime Paris
Fleeing the train station—confused
Then ending up—in Bogart’s arms?

As you can see—hypnotic therapy
Works just fine with me—regressing
Me back to my favorite—noir flicks
A little Nitrous here—some sushi there

Saturday, July 18, 2009

Teenage Werewolf

Teenage Werewolf

“I was a teenage werewolf
Doing the best that I can
I wanna hold your hand
But evil intervened—
And cut short our scene
—The Remus Lupins,
“Teenage Werewolf”

A single—shameless gutter
Runs down—into Lascaux
Filling up—the animal sewers
With lupine—laissez-faire

Young Frenchmen with—
Black beret—sunglasses
Cocteau Orphée enablers
Shamelessly—guiding me

Down into White Trash—
Trailer Court—Decadence
Hookahs and hashish—
Elvis the Pelvis—Liberace

Coiling conduits deep—
Into underground labyrinths
Full of minotaured pubes—
Erect werewolf bellybuttons

Feeling bottomless urges—
Generational tides—sliding up
And down—my born-again
Human—Cro-Magnon legs

My cheesy—Literature Act
High-Class Ripley’s Believe It
Or Not—Pulp Fiction Motel

Loved the—secret prowlings
Wolfish film noir—evenings
Rainy nights—North Beach
Wet eucalyptus—City Lights

The steep hill—down Buchanan
Japantown—full of Sushi bars
Kinokuniya Bookstore—late night
Sushi Snack—still quivering

Rough Trade

Rough Trade—
Bulgarian Cheesecake

I met him—in the four-star hotel lobby
One night in Turgovishte—northern Bulgaria
Slavic eyes—have always turned me on
And those bored bedroom—droopy eyelids

I was more interested—in architecture though
Lovely cathedrals—Varna, Burgas, Razgrad,
Dobrich, Shumen—Albania, Romania, Moldova…
They didn’t—ban the women from the lobby

It would be bad for Business—customers paid
For rooms and sex—he was the young pimp
Among his usual clients—cops, politicians,
dealers Professors, actors—foreigners like me

His name was—Svetoslav Spasov
And he looked—under 18 like his young girls
The nice swanky lobby—flow of illicit drugs
He gave me—the sob story about pimping

Supporting his ill mother—crippled sister
“If I stopped pimping—who’d support my family?”
He said lying thru his teeth—Bulgaria the premier
Sex trade country—it didn’t interest me (much)

He didn’t believe me—about touring
Architecture—and all that jive smoking his
Pipe—nude in bed young Svetoslav Spasov
Smirky smile—knowing I didn’t believe him

What a—Somnambulistic Wolfboy Beauty!!!!
Spastic a couple of times—just for me
His girls in the lobby—not missing him much
Even young Bulgarian pimps—need to get off

I hustled him back—to New York City
Kept him in my penthouse—all to myself
Looking out at—Central Park at night
Nothing like Bulgarian—cheesecake!!!

Thursday, July 16, 2009

The Wolfboy

The Wolfboy

“To put it in two
words: disaster struck.”
—D.A Powell and David
Trinidad, By Myself

His hideous howl—the Dirge of Death!
It turned me on—Howl of the Undead!!!

Handsome Son of—Lon Chaney Jr.
Blonde offspring of—Evelyn Ankers

Curse of the Full Moon—plaguing him
I met him one spectral night—San Francisco

Stalking Lafayette Park—moonlit nights
Pacific Heights—wasn’t safe back then

Took him down Buchanan—to Japantown
Raw fish, octopus, sushi—craved it bad

Picked a kid—from the Bowling Alley
Had him for desert—behind Kinokuniya

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

The Wolf Boy

The Wolf Boy

“The Allegory of the Wolf Boy”
originates in a remembered
story by Saki. His real name
was H. H. Munro. He wrote a
story about a werewolf who
was a boy.”—Thom Gunn,
Outside the Lines: Talking with
Contemporary Gay Poets

A wolfish Double—that’s my Story
Boss Cupid—my werewolf Other
Devious master—of Darke Woode
Ask the Gypsy—Maria Ouspenskya

My body insisted—on Wolfishness
Having been—promised Love
And my mind—insisted on Howling
Having been promised—Imagination

Whoever is bitten—by a Werewolf
And lives—becomes a Werewolf Boy
Bela Lugosi—bit me bad one night
Maleva knew—I was Wolfboy then

Even a boy who’s—pure in heart
And says his prayers—late at night
May become a Wolf—when Wolfbane
Blooms and—the Moon is bright

The way I walked—was a thorny Path
Through no fault—of my own Choice
But as the rain—enters the soil and the
River enters the sea—so my Tears ran

Down to my predestined end—the Danube
The Rhine—the Seine, the Volga until
My suffering would be over—joining Bela
My Father—Evelyn Ankers my Mother

So that Claude Rains—ranted on & on
About the Gypsy Woman—filling my mind
With gibberish—werewolves & pentagrams
Superstitious—lycanthropic sexuality!!!

I learned fast—werewolf mythology in
The moody moonlit—evenings of boyish
Bijou Lust—and Universal horror flick
Homosexuality—in Wolfboy’s body

Werewolf adolescence—I deserved it
All that wolfish chemistry—doing me in
Exuding Big Bad Wolf—butchy orgones
My leather jacket—my motorcycle boots

Foggy SF nights—haunting the Castro
Cruising Pacific Heights—gothic mansions
Tourists by day—Lycanthropy by night
Sense of male mystery—sharp teeth!!!

Monday, July 13, 2009

Solaris Fractal Zoom

Solaris Fractal Zoom

06 Ghosts 1
Nine Inch Nails

How do we encounter the Other?

Is Solaris really interested in us?

Exo-contact? What is it?

Fractoid Utopias

Fractal Utopias

“Utopia has always
been a political issue,
an unusual destiny
for a literary form”
—Fredric Jameson,
Archaeologies of the Future:
The Desire Called Utopia and
Other Science Fictions

The fractal thrill—of Descent
Potential illumination—versus
Potential demise—Dissolution

Every abyss—has an undertow
Returning—leaving behind
Jetsam and flotsam—onshore

Mayan glyphs—canoeing fast
Plumed serpents—Indian rowers
The gods—with octopodal eyes

The effect—on the Poetic Line
The Mandelbrot—Rush Hour
The Fractoid—science-fiction line

After awhile—Fractoid Artifacts
Become—Elephant Graveyards
Mammoths—frozen librarial vaults

Hollywood Fractoids

Hollywood Fractoids

Quotidian specters—Hollywood
Los Angeles—Solaris multiplex
Memory waves—movie back alleys

Fractoid images—never touch down
Not touching down—postmodernism?
Have broadband keyboard—will travel?

The core of creativity—cinematic

Getting more and more complex
Bakhtin’s last word—"intertextual"

Uroboros Fractals

Uroboros Fractals

“With a bite,
the apple eater
is surrounded
Near Eve’s
Teeth marks
The poison is
Most intense—
So Original Sin
Flares in any act
In the act of the
Mind—world arrest
Asserts itelf”
—Clayton Eshleman
Under World Arrest

We’re under—house arrest
For me—there’s No Exit
From Peril—here and now

Politcal incarceration—crimes
Documented by Clayton Eshleman
Boss Cupid’s—Guantánamo Bay

The world—has no Origin
We’re encircled—by Fractal Fantasy
Imprisoned—inside a Wreck of Images

Poetry as—a slouching Snake
Serpentine—writhing Reptilian
Halo—of Fractal Emptiness

Regardless of—how deep one goes
Zooming down into—Mandelbrot sets
There’s always—additional detail to see

During this 12-second—Animation Zoom
The set becomes—magnified 11-million times
The frame is life-size—at 45 mm across

But what if instead—of Fractal Freedom
Zoom Animation—reveals the opposite?
We’re imprisoned—in a Fractal Labyrinth?

Suspended—between Origin & Now
An inherent Doppelganger—Doubleness
An uroboric Snake—biting its own Tail?

Mandelbrot Menace

Mandelbrot Zoom

Mandelbrot Menace

“frame fantasies
like beginnings of
sentences, form
opening clauses,
seeking a plausible
conjunction that a
sentence can turn
on to compound
the daydream”
—Thom Gunn,
“The Menace,”
Passages of Joy

The distance—between
The Actual—and Apparent
Culminating—in clauses of
Action—Narrative Sex

I’m not—a real poet
But a poet—inducted by
Myself—into an army of
Fantasy—greeting the Other

Thom Gunn—isn’t greatly
Perplexed—by Violence
But concentrates—like me
On Order—and Control

Sadomasochism—I admit
Defines the—relationship
Between—Form & Content
They imprison—each other

Fractals—become Fetishes
Like Gunn’s—motorcyclists
Tightly bound—in leather
Creating their—own world

But I lack—British irony
The very idea—of a handsome
Metaphysical biker—seems
Ridiculous to me—even Brando

Altho I can see—metrical
Regularity in—Gunn’s poetry
Intellectual conceits—on

His sullen—end rhymes
Enjambments—posing as
Utmost Freedoms—his

His transition—from control
To release—his metamorphoses
Into Wolf Boy—falling down on
All fours—beneath fractal moons

Lycanthropy—and Mandelbrot
Lying in bed—dreaming I’m wolf
My astral body—like Lon Chaney Jr
Concocting fractal—eidetic imagery?