Son of Ariel



Son of Ariel

“You reveled in red
But the jewel you lost was blue.”
—Ted Hughes, “Red,”
Birthday Letters

I found Mommy dead—
Her head stuck in the oven.

I pulled Mommy out—
But her pretty face was blue.

I wept in Yeats’ kitchen—
But orphaned boys never cry.

I looked into Mommy’s eyes—
Her lips pursed like a kiss.

Red was her favorite color—
But she ended up blue.

Red carmine on the carpet—
Red-ochre on the linoleum floor.

Blood oozed from her nose—
Bruised roses, writhing snakes.

Her mind livid burgundy—
Even now it revels in ruby-red.

Open veins in the bathtub—
Her wrists would’ve been next.

Her tiny fingers always busy—
Her Schaeffer pen the evil key.

I have my father Ted to thank—
Kingfisher blue eyes are mine.

I’m the Bluebeard Boy of morning—
Her ruby corduroy blood is mine.

I am the Son of Ariel—
My dead mother was a goddess.

My fingers are her fingers—
All ten of them cat-like & nervous.

My mind is her mind—
Old labyrinths open up to us.

We slink thru texts like snakes—
Our poetry is zero to the bone.

The edge of things recedes—
The writerly life is a lonely one

Amalfi Drive



Amalfi Drive

“When the British expatriate filmmaker
James Whale was found dead in his
swimming pool on Amalfi Drive in the
posh Pacific Palisades on May 29, 1957,
the world paid only passing attention.
In Hollywood terms, the director of the
stylish horror films Frankenstein, Bride
of Frankenstein, and The Invisible Man
and the 1936 version of Show Boat
already had been dead for sixteen years.
—Joseph McBride,“The Joys of Necrophilia,”
The New York Review of Books, Volume 46,
Number 12, July 15, 1999

This is me at the bottom of the pool. I’m floating face-down in the shallow end—contemplating my existence. What existence? I’ve been dead for sixteen years anyway—so what’s the difference?


I was the man who tread on the tiger’s tail—a very difficult tight-wire act to be successful at. The censors let me get away with Frankenstein, The Invisible Man and Bride of Frankenstein—but then they said enough was enough.

The studio moguls didn’t want trouble with the Nazis—and I was T=R=O=U=B=L=E wherever I went. Ever since being a POW at Holzminden and Journey’s End—all the way to Remarque’s The Road Back. I had the censors on my back—like Akira Kurosawa.

Kurosawa’s screenplay The Men Who Tread on the Tiger’s Tail was based on an old Kabuki piece “Kanjincho.” (1)

Tiger’s Tale was being called a distortion of the Kabuki play “Kanjincho,” but Kurosawa believed that the Kabuki play itself was already a distortion of the Noh play “Ataka.” The Kabuki was in fact based on this original Noh play. (2)

So what finally happened to Tiger’s Tale? For the answer to that question, the censors came onstage once again. When the U.S. Army moved in to occupy Japan, it immediately began crusading against Japanese militarism.

Part of this crusade consisted of dismissing the Japanese censors and the judicial police. And yet Kurosawa was called in by these very same old censors. They said they had objections to Tiger’s Tale. (3)

Well, the censors never give up.

*************

(1) Based on Kanjincho, a Kabuki drama that's said to be as well-known in the East as Robin Hood is in the West, this film is pitched as a parody of Kabuki, meant to undermine the feudal values of the original.”— Jonathan Rosenbaum

(2) In Something Like an Autobiography (1982) Kurosawa wrote: "Yama-san said: 'If you want to become a film director, first write scripts.' I felt he was right, so I applied myself wholeheartedly to scriptwriting." Kurosawa abandoned the idea of an objective narrator in a way which had much similarities with he French nouveau roman of the 1950s. Rashomon was set in the eighth century Japan. The acting is overstated in Kabuki fashion for dramatic effect but at the same time totally believable.

(3) "In any event, this film is meaningless. Just what do you intend by making such a boring movie?" All my pent-up anger broke loose against this fellow: "If a meaningless person says something is meaningless, that's probably proof that it isn't meaningless; and if a boring person says something is boring, that's probably proof that it's interesting." The young censor's face went through changes from blue to red to yellow, covering all three primary colors. I watched this display for a while and then stood up and went home.

Interview with James Whale



Interview with James Whale


“It's alive, it's alive,
it's alive, it's alive, IT'S ALIVE!!!”
—Colin Clive

James Whale: I started having these nightmares—the worst kind.

Ed Wood Jr: What kind of nightmares?

James Whale: I’d be standing in front of the mirror—then suddenly I’d see the Frankenstein monster there ogling and staring at me. It was like having a nightmare—I couldn’t run away. I felt nervous all over. I couldn’t wake up!!! At first just—half-realizing the awful truth. Then one morning—suddenly knowing… The Monster in the Mirror—it was me. I was the Frankenstein monster!!!

Ed Wood Jr: You’d created this horrible monster—and the monster was you!!!. Not just one Frankenstein monster tho—you’d spawned a whole Hollywood cottage industry of them. A vast long tiresome line of Frankenstein monsters—going around the block!!! Across all of America—all the local RKO theaters!!! All the local Bijou, Granada, Strands—all the Lyric, Varsity and Neptune Movie Theaters!!! All those ‘30s Movie Palaces…

[Whale sips his martini—smirking at him. If Ed Wood Jr. only knew—what the studios could do to a man.]

James Whale: Ah yes, Eddie. Palaces of exquisite shame and wonder… Palaces of Hollywood Babylon!!! Tod Browning loved it—gutter roses and jewels. He’d do anything to ogle at some leg—nice ankles were his fetish.

Ed Wood Jr: Even with midgets and pinheads?

James Whale: The vaudeville carnie lust—him and Lon Chaney. It was just Awful, my dear!!! Dracula was just another roadside attraction—compared with Zip and Pip. One loathsome Creature of the Night after the other—getting worse and worse…

Ed Wood Jr: Naturally The Bride of Frankenstein didn’t care—all she wanted to do was spawn more horrible monsters!!! Anything was better than Boris Karloff or Charles Laughton!!! Elsa was making up for lost time!!! Fast!!! It was simply Shocking!!!

James Whale: Yes, Eddie—so very true. Endless mobs of young pimply-faced teenage Sons of Frankensteins!!! Vast progenies of tall gaunt gangly Frankenstein creatures!!! Gangs of gawking gangly grotesque killer Karloffs!!!

Ed Wood Jr: And all of those tacky Bela Lugosi sycophants!!! The same hoity-toity Miss Thesiger types!!!

James Whale: Mad jealous Scientist queens—all of them plotting murder, mayhem & Hollywood mischief!!!


Ed Wood Jr: Tell me, James. What were some of the worse ones?

James Whale: Well, my dear, they go on and on.

Ed Wood Jr: Baclanova could channel the future?

James Whale: Well, of course. How I hated them all. Let me count the ways:

Andy Warhol’s Flesh of Frankenstein!!!
Frankenstein Reborn!!!
Frankenstein: The Real Story!!!
The Curse of Frankenstein!!!
Frankenstein Unbound!!!
Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman!!!
Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed!!!
The Ghost of Frankenstein!!!
House of Frankenstein!!!
Frankenstein Created Woman!!!
The Revenge of Frankenstein!!!
The Evil of Frankenstein!!!
Dracula vs. Frankenstein!!!
Frankenstein and Me!!!
The Horror of Frankenstein!!!
Jesse James Meets Frankenstein!!!
Rock ‘n’ Roll Frankenstein!!!
Frankenstein Punk!!!
Frankenstein Meets the Spacemonster!!!
Blackenstein Frankenstein Island!!!
I Was a Teenage Frankenstein!!!
Lust for Frankenstein!!!
The Daughter of Frankenstein!!!


Ed Wood Jr: My dear!!! The Daughter of Frankenstein!!!

[James Whale nods knowingly. Then, taking off his robe, he throws it in the air and starts doing a simply insanely intoxicated and obscene hoochey-koochey act for all the boyz in the pool, singing:

She's the Daughter of Frankenstein!!!
And she's everybody's dream!!!
She's the Daughter of Frankenstein!!!

She ain't got stitches, she's got seams!!!
She's the Daughter of Frankenstein!!!
And she's the real thing!!!




[Loud music in the background—young male laughter]



She's the Daughter of Frankenstein!!!
She's got all the right parts in all the right places!!!
She's good at filling up those naughty spaces.
She puts all those smiles on all those faces—all right.
Try not to love her: I bet you can't!!!
Try not to love her: I bet you can't!!!
She's a wonder to behold: she can charm and enchant.
She's a wonder to behold: she can charm and enchant.
All the way down—to the Laboratory and back!!!

She's the Daughter of Frankenstein!!!



[James gets the cross-eyed dizzy look of Una O’Connor on his face, counting his fingers for each new crummy Frankenstein flick to ooze out of Beverly Hills…]

Frankenstein Reborn!!!
Frankenstein: The College Years!!!
Billy Frankenstein!!!
Frankenstein on Campus!!!
Frankenstein & the Werewolf Reborn!!!
Boy Frankenstein!!!
Frankenstein vs. the Wolfman!!!
Frankenstein: Un histoire d’amour!!!
Kiss of Frankenstein!!!
Barbara Frankenstein!!!
Camilla Frankenstein!!!
Lenore Frankenstein!!!
Casanova Frankenstein!!!
Baroness Frankenstein!!!
Baron Wolf von Frankenstein!!!
Marilyn Monroe Frankenstein!!!

[Finally Whale stops counting, simply exhausted with the nightmarish progeny of his tortured mind and unrelenting campy horror at what his innocent pusillanimous Pacific Palisades peccadilloes had created. As Karloff said: Better dead!!!]

Ed Wood Jr: But it wasn’t your fault, Clive. I mean—James. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It was a freakish accident. Like Browning’s Freaks. Just another carnival sideshow for the rubes. Step Right Up!!! See the Bearded Lady!!! See the Penguin Boy!!! See Zip and Pip—the Pinhead Twins. Pass the Popcorn!!! Gimme an Orange Crush!!! Gimme…”

James Whale: That’s right… It wasn’t my fault. It was all those Proposition Hate Queens—down there in La La Land!!! It wasn’t my fault. It was an act of god—praise the Mormons!!! Elsa Lanchester as Mary Shelley and the Bride. Colin Clive as the Baron and Basil Rathbone as Henry Frankenstein. Valerie Hobson as Elizabeth. Charming Ernest Thesiger as Dr. Pretorius. Lovely Una O’Connor as Minnie.

Ed Wood Jr: Certainly not nelly Gavin Gordon as Lord Byron. How could anyone blame Lord Byron? And I’m sure Douglas Walton’s not to blame either—that dark and stormy night with Percy Bysshe Shelley!!!

James Whale: Nor E. E. Clive as the Burgomaster. Nor Tricky Dick Nixon as the Hermit. Not Dwight Frye as Karl What’s His Name. Surely not John Carradine as the Hunter. Surely not River Phoenix as the Gypsy Boy!!!

Ed Wood Jr: Surely not Joan Crawford as the Forest Nymph. Not Norman Mailer as the Archbishop. Not Charles Laughton as the Barmaid. Not Eva Braun as the Berlin Ballerina.

James Whale: Surely not Zsa Zsa Gabor as the Queen of Outer Space burgomaster’s whore!! For gawd’s sake—surely not Universal Pictures!!!

Ed Wood Jr: Yes, Baron—excuse me, I mean James. You’re indubitably correct. It boggles the mind—by the way can you loan me $1,000,000? Bela has upped his salary—because Tor Johnson and Vampira never know their lines.

James Whale: What lines?

Ed Wood Jr: Well, actually my dear, I’m off to San Bernardino for the weekend. A minor cash flow problem—you know how it is? We’re filming this lovely scene on the train with Yeats and Gloria Swanson—as they consummate their wedding night with Gloria doing automatic writing on the ceiling of their compartment…

James Whale: Yes, Yeats has real class. Too bad he’s dead you know. But then that probably makes it even better though, my dear. It’s orange blossom season, you know.

Ed Wood Jr: Well, as a matter of fact—I just happened to be over there last week. Talking to a meatpacker plant owner—who wants his son in The Bride and the Monster…

[Whale nods knowingly—gets out his checkbook.]

Ed Wood Jr: BTW James, the Tinsel Town gossip is you’re ditching that handsome young Pierre Foegel your French chauffeur & kept man?

James Whale: I suppose Foegel is getting tiresome, Eddie—not because I’m tired with him but rather he’s tired of me. After all, I’m just an old Hollywood queen—they got rid of as soon as they could.

Ed Wood Jr: Oh well, what does one expect though—from low-life Parisian bartenders though…

James Whale: Ah, yes—kept boyz get that way. Spoiled—simply spoiled-rotten and ever so demanding. Especially down here in sunny CA.

Ed Wood Jr: Then there’s that young man—the young muscular handsome male nurse who’s taking care of you.

James Whale: Yes, his real name is Ripley—as in “Ripley’s Believe It or Not.” I met him at Saint John’s Hospital in Santa Monica.

Ed Wood Jr: I thought it was Pasadena?

James Whale: You’re right Eddie. First it was Las Encinas sanitarium in Pasadena—that’s where they store all the tragic “Whatever Happened to What’s His Name” types and all the Who’s Who of Hollywood Has-Been’s and Old Wrinklies. Former great stars—like Mae Clarke, John Barrymore and me left to play Bridge and chat about the past…

Ed Wood Jr: I guess they really tried to scramble your brains down there in Pasadena—with all those primitive horrendous shock treatments. The huge zapping zig-zagging special effects—did it remind you of being down there in Baron Frankenstein’s laboratory?

James Whale: Ah, Baron Frankenstein’s laboratory. How innocent and naive. Compared with the greenish hellish basement of the Las Encinas sanitarium. No wonder I was having Evil Science nightmares—you could smell all those burning electrodes glued to those poor hapless blue-rinse temples at night. Poor Evita Peron…

Ed Wood Jr: It’s just shameless isn’t it?

James Whale: The Frankenstein Nightmare—I created it. The world became my Nightmare. I launched this horror into the world—and nobody could stop it. I look back on it now—and I wish I’d never met Karloff or Universal. I look at my watch—it’s always 13 o’clock. I look at myself in the mirror—realizing what I’d done….

Ed Wood Jr: Do you feel yourself typecast?

James Whale: Duh!!!—do they waltz in Vienna? Does the sun come up in the East?

[Whale pauses—nervously exhaling his cigarette in Ed Wood’s face. Shrugging, he continues…]

James Whale: I realized that Frankenstein (1931) and Bride of Frankenstein (1935) had laid a curse on me. That and The Invisible Man (1933)—their success had a way of starting to depress me. Even Show Boat (1936) didn’t really make me feel liberated—from the typecast horror movie inertia that I found taking control of me. It was like an undertow on the beach—it kept reaching up and pulling me under.

Ed Wood Jr: Charles Laughton tried to cheer you up?

Whale: Yes, he and Elsa got me to design the sets for a couple of “minuscule musicals” to stage in NYC. The first was The Duke and the Dairymaid—based on a story by Max Beerbohm with lyrics by Sam Rosen and music by Ray Henderson.

[A cute UCLA twink strolls by, holding a towel around his neck and that’s about it. Except his flip-flop sandals—smoking a Camel. Whale smiles, winks.]

James Whale: The second play was a nightmare—“Happy Anniversary 2116.” It was a “science fiction” opera of all things. I designed two or three miniature sets for visualizing this marionette-robot factory of the future—populated by these strange little Ray Harryhausen animated things. You know, like he did with King Kong and all that dinosaur crap. I ditched it because of the simply amateur first drafts by Ray Henderson. The only set design still interesting to me—was the pool and being retired here on Amalfi Drive. Hollywood bores me—it always did.

Ed Wood Jr: Hmmmm.

James Whale: Unfortunately, the space opera thing reminded me of all those depressing moody gothic German Expressionist sets—you know the weird slanted windows, the bizarre staircases and all that. That and all the sickening sequels like Son of Frankenstein with Basil Rathbone.

Ed Wood Jr: Hmmmm.

James Whale: It was so embarrassing—Bela Lugosi going queer for the Monster. Pawing and prodding him—hiding him away down in the crypt. Poor Basil just a bundle of nerves. It was rather incestuous—after all, Basil and Karloff were both Baron Frankenstein’s sons, right? Basil couldn’t wait to get the big hunk upstairs into his compy bedroom!!!

Ed Wood Jr: Talk about an odd couple, my dear. Sort of like, well, “Glen and Glenda” don’t you think? You know what I mean, James? Now there’s an idea for a schlock masterpiece: Rathbone and Karloff!!!


Cleaving Ed Wood Jr.




I Awoke Early the Day I Died (1974)

Bela Lugosi died—August 16, 1956
James Whale died—May 29, 1957
I died—December 10, 1977

I woke up—early that day.
Feeling kinda—typecast and blue.
Cursed by—Glen and Glenda.
Of course—it might have been Jailbait too.
Or Plan 9 From Outer Space—the Pits.
Maybe it was—tacky Bride of the Monster.

I was cursed—like Bela Lugosi.
I was cursed—like James Whale.
I was cursed—like James Dean.
I was cursed—like Vampira.

I was camp—before Warhol.
I was kitschy—before Waters.
I was weird—before Lynch.
I was HOMO—before POMO.




Cleaving James Whale



Interview with James Whale


Edward D. Wood Jr.—James Whale
788 South Amalfi Drive, Pacific Palisades
May 20, 1956

Whale: Bela needs a thousand dollars?

Wood: I’ve got some footage from 1955.

Whale: Got a name for it yet?

Wood: Yeah, but Bela doesn’t like it.

Whale: Bela’s at the age where beggars can’t be choosey.

Wood: I know. Grave Robbers from Outer Space. That’s the name of it. I’ve got the script ready.

Whale: Jaysus christ, Eddie. No wonder he doesn’t like it.

Wood: Yeah, but it’s a good script.

Whale: Hmmm, yes very imaginative, my dear.

[Whale and Wood are sitting around the pool after lunch. Chatting and camping it up. Wood looks up to Whale—the master horror director. As usual Wood is broke; Whale is wealthy after investing wisely.]

Whale: Ernest Thesiger called the other day. He and Una are in Rome.

Wood: Una Conner? Una and Ernst? Talk about odd couple.

Whale: Ah yes, after Bride of Frankenstein they fell in love with each other. They do Rome—hustle the boys. Una gets Thesiger that rarest tidbit of Italian jailbait. You know—in the Vatican.

Wood: Thesiger has no shame. It’s a wonder you didn’t cast her as the Bride of Frankenstein.

[Whale smiles. It seems so long ago. Back when campy Ernst played mad Dr. Praetorius. Whimpering, pleading with Karloff: “Not that!!! Please not that!!! Not the Lever!!!” Exploding the whole rotten Castle of Frankenstein. Ending Miss Thesiger and her sordid monstrous dream of world dominion.]

Whale: The scene with cigars and wine down in the cemetery crypt—toasting to a future world of monsters. That was Ernst’s idea.

Wood: And that stunning entrance—Elsa as the Bride of Frankenstein! Those flourishing trumpets! With her lovely silk lace wedding dress! And her exquisite sweeping art deco wig!

Whale: Ah yes—the coiffure with lightening bolts. One of my better accomplishments.

Wood: I bet all the studio big wigs were dying with jealousy.

Whale: Of course, my dear. I didn’t want to do Bride anyway. I knew it would typecast me—the Frankenstein Curse. And it did too, didn’t it?

[Wood nods knowingly—knowing only too well that Whale’s career from then on was limited to the horror genre. The Thirties, the Forties—all the way up to its denouement with Abbott and Costello Meets Frankenstein in the early Fifties. It was a fatal love—the Bride and all her filmic reincarnations up there on the Bijou screen. Whale resented it…using his ironic sense of humor to get even.]

Wood: Something that happened to Bela Lugosi too. From Dracula on—he’d always be The Prince of Darkness. Queen of Transylvania. Evil Balkan Bad Boy…

Whale: Oh, stop, Eddie. You get so maudlin sometimes. The next thing you’ll be saying you’ve been typecast too.

Wood: Well, isn’t it true?

Whale: I suppose so, my dear. But then after all—Glen or Glenda did rather get you started on the way to camp, kitsch and fortune.

Wood: Fortune? I’m always broke. I write the scripts. I do the directing. I do the filming. I do the special effects. I do the marketing. And yet I get paid peanuts—and when will Hollywood recognize my talent? When will I get my fame and fortune? Like you, Jimmy?

Whale: Never. It doesn’t exist. It’s all a grand illusion—I learned that during the war. When I got into acting—for the rest of us. Captured, bored, behind German lines. Drama saved me—it was drag and burlesque that got us through those captive days and nights of hidden secret desires. Camping it up—making light of our uncourageous imprisonment.

Wood: I bet you played a simply divine Juliet, my dear.

Whale: Yes, I wasn’t bashful either. I loved to show a little leg—during louche lewd scenes. “Oh wherefore art thou, my big bad Romeo bruiser? Why do you keep me waiting—here at this lonely parapet? This sad secluded balcony—beneath the lubricous lascivious moon and leering stars? Wherefore art thou—my cute Latin hunk who needs it worse than me?”

Wood: My dear, you haven’t lost the touch.

[The bunch of boy-toys lollygagging by the pool—all of them entranced in youthful wonder. Amazed whenever James Whale turned his cinematic charm on—pressing the SOS button that made the Pacific Palisades pause and hesitate. As if Norma Desmond had stepped out on the front porch of her Sunset Boulevard mansion—showing a little leg. Motioning the cute new paperboy to come into her parlor to be paid—for the excruciating monthly subscription to the LA Times. Norma and James liked chicken—the cuter the better. Both James and Norma were known to stoop to conquer—especially when it came to young athletes and ambitious aspiring actors from Hollywood High or the nearby beaches. Or UCLA or hoity-toity Stanford.]

Whale: You’re so smooth, Eddie. You know how to get what you want. A thousand for Bela. Oh Jimmy—get my checkbook will you please?

[The Pacific Palisades is beautiful—almost as beautiful as James’ pen briefly zipping across the check—making possible the presence of Bela Lugosi once again in a Edward Wood Jr. loser. Who cared though—Eddie put the make on everybody. How else could anything be done—like Jailbait money talked and baloney walked. The same with Bride of the Monster—the meatpacker’s son got the lead not because he was a good actor but because Big Daddy paid for the production. Basically because he wanted his son to be a Hollywood star—and you had to start somewhere… Even an Ed Wood movie was a movie—well, kinda. Hollywood scoffed at Ed Wood—but later generations of American moviegoers would get down on their knees and… well, praise the kitschy Queen of Camp. The one and only Diva of Hollywood Boulevard—the kinky cross-dressing Mandingo Madame of Mulholland Drive!!!]

Whale: Christ, Eddie—you’re so dizzy. You’re more dizzy than Una O’Conner. You’re always on the edge of the precipice. On the brink of fame and fortune. All that inventive snark and satire. Even if you don’t know it.

[A nude boy nods—saunters off into the beach house. He doesn’t have a name—but he makes good cocktails and hors-d-oeuvres. He makes a nice kept boy—adds some grace and charm to Amalfi Drive. David Lewis has left in a huff; Pierre Foegel the 25 year old bartender James met in a Paris dive has moved in—after Lewis moves out. Whale has fallen in love with him—even getting him a Shell station for doing what he likes to do most. Play with cars—get his greasy hands on expensive Jaguars, Cadillacs and sportcars. Kept men and boys can be expensive—but they do liven up the retirement of aging divas and directors.]

Wood: Oh thank you, Jimmy. I feel giddy. Let’s have another mint julep. To celebrate Bela’s good fortune!! I can’t wait—to being shooting!!!

Whale: Ah yes, the joys of directing. You remember that scene in Bride of Frankenstein. When Una is standing there after the Castle of Frankenstein had been blown up? Her husband has fallen through the ruins down into the subterranean crypt. Where the Frankenstein Creature still survives? Una is standing there on the precipice—the dark moody clouds are scudding by overhead. Her hair is flowing unkempt in the wind—after the terrible events of the night. She always has that slightly coo-coo look on her face—she’s that way in real life too.

Wood: Oh that scene where…

Whale: Yes, Una is standing there by this cliff—and who reaches up from the dark depths? The Creature!!! He grabs her scrawny arm. She looks down and screams. Then he grabs her scrawny neck—and with guttural growl of anger and disgust throws poor Una down into the hellish pit. One can hear her scream all the way down, bumping along the way, until her frail broken body splashes into the putrid water far down below.

[Wood nods enthusiastically—already his kitschy campy crazy mind is going to town. Thinking of how to squeeze some more Lugosi into the movie. But he had to hurry up—Lugosi was fading fast. It really didn’t make any difference what the script for Bela said—the important thing was getting “Bela Lugosi” up there on the marquee. Into the previews of coming attractions—into the publicity limelight to milk some more bucks out of the local movie houses. Bela may have been a great star back in the Thirties and Forties—but now he was merely a shadowy fading actor from another Era. Like James Whale—forever trapped in the crypt of typecast has-beens and Norma Desmond types. Always looking for the big comeback—the close-up shot at last for Mister Cecile B. DeMille there on the great descending staircase of Hollywood Fame and Fortune. It happens to the best of Hollywood Babylon—the diva die-out rate isn’t pretty.]

Whale: And then there’s Una doing her little scream routine—somehow catching a lurid glimpse of Claude Raines as The Invisible Man. As if the Invisible Man’s big you know what weren’t invisible at all—but rather the Hollywood gossip was all true.

[Claude Raines is Donkey Dong in Invisible Man—even more so in The Wolf Man. Long Chaney Jr. was always getting drunk and talking dirty about it. Smirking at how Colin Clive lost his cookies during that fatal scene in the Laboratory basement—leaning up against the stainless steel operating table after giving the Creature all that juice and voltage through the tarnished bolts in Karloff’s black and blue neck.]

Whale: I’ve been keeping a porno diary. Since I retired and had the pool put in. I can’t swim, of course—I could probably drown in the shallow end. The boys love to have fun—day in and day out.

Wood: I can just imagine you in angora—floating face down in your pool. Famous Angora Queen found beneath Swaying Amalfi Palms—Pacific Palisades Sugar Daddy!!! Gone like Murnau—going down on cute Philippino teenage chauffeur. Over the cliff—the Packard convertible. Murnau—not missing a drop!!

Whale: Oh stop it, Eddie. Don’t get me laughing. I’ll surely end up with a stroke—in Santa Monica or Pasadena. That’s where they put old directors—old worn-out Frankensteins and dreary queen bee blood-suckers.

Wood: Thank you, Jimmy. Let me get back to Bela right away. He wants to call it Plan 9 From Outer Space. I’ve got Vampira and Tor Johnson lined up. I’ll dedicate the film to you, dearest Jimmy.

Whale: Oh that’s okay, Eddie. I’d rather you wouldn’t though.



Killer in Drag



Killer in Drag (1965)

"She dug green angora glove
covered hands deep into the
coat pocket where her right
hand fit snugly around the
dainty pearl-handled .32.”
—Edward D. Wood Jr.
Killer in Drag

Tonight—my fluffy floor-length pink
Marabou negligee—slipping my dainty
Pearl-handled automatic—smoothly into my
Silk-lined pocket—crossing my expensive
Effeminately decorated—art deco apartment
To the edge of my—rumpled king-sized bed
Slipping off my—marabou negligee
Revealing beneath—a sleek pink satin
Black lace trimmed—nightgown…

While Mona—beautiful blonde Mona
Sits in bed—watching my every move
Wearing only her filmy nylon bed jacket
Which leaves nothing—underneath it
To the erotic imagination—pouts at me


Killer in Drag



“Not another hit job?”—Mona asks
Yes, I tell her—Glenda’s got a job to do
“Will it take long?”—my teen angel asks
You might get bored—here all alone
Mona pouts—slips out of bed
Stepping into her panties—silently
Adjusting her brassiere—moodily
Pulling down a nylon slip—then
Into a sexy satin—cocktail dress

It’s time for me—to butch it up
When I shift from lover—to killer
Something happens—the plot thickens…
Ed Wood takes it—very seriously
Cross-dressing—his cinematic vision
Filming his way—into pulp fiction
How serious am I—about killer drag?
My own moody—auteur filmography?
Becoming a killer—the camera’s eye?




Killer in Drag



“If we had the time to read
Forbidden Love as something
like a pulp film—we would be
ushered toward a set of
questions about pulp’s
transformations across
media, its specularization
of the clandestine.”
—Amy Villarejo, “Forbidden
Love: Pulp as Lesbian History,”
Out Takes: Essays on Queer
Theory and Film

Ed Wood Jr. writes pulp fiction—lots of it
Although known—for his camp & kitschy movies
Like Glen or Glenda (1953)—and Jailbait (1954)
Wood helps pulp fiction—enter mainstream USA
Sordid transgressive—postmodern lit crit



Killer in Drag



Like camp and kitsch—pulp fiction
Schmoozes with alienation, abjection
bad taste, despair—skanky criminality
borderline betrayals—sullen noir artforms
demeaning realizations—suddenly we’re
Quentin Tarantino—lost in Pulp Fiction

Pulp Fiction succeeds—where film noir fails
Resurrecting ‘40s cheap—escapist flashbacks
mass-market paperbacks—somewhere between
realism & escapism—fixated on mobsters, crime,
drugs, crooked boxers—illicit gay & lesbian sex
plus all those other—forbidden urban failures



Killer in Drag



Pulp fiction paperbacks—ratty thumb-worn
known mostly to kitschy—collectors & bricoleurs
interested in twentieth-century debris—strolling
the lonely beaches—the dark grimy docks
cruising crummy jetsam—amidst the garbage
Old used rubbers—floating desultorily deflated
Down by the East River—the ebb flow turgid
undertow—of American flotsam culture

Depressing crummy paperbacks—pulp fiction
Trash like Ed Wood’s—Black Lace Drag (1963)
Between 1967-1968—publishing 22 known titles
Nine issued between—September & October 1968
Some like Orgy of the Dead (1965)—published
later as paperbacks—after dreary Bijou matinees
ending up tired & worn—in drugstore bookracks…



Killer in Drag



“Glenda must start working
on her voice again”
—Edward D. Wood Jr.
Killer in Drag

Like angora-obsessed—writer Ed Wood Jr.
I’ve got this thing—for POMO transvestism too
And why not, my dear—I’m gay neo-noir
It makes me—feel good inside & subversive
Flicks are okay—but writing pulp fiction gets
Closer to queering identity—transgressively

Beyond noir—beyond pulp fiction?
Can I take Glen/Glenda—one step further?
Like Borges does—be my dream other?
Be Killer in Drag—work for a "Syndicate”?
Filming the worst movie—ever made
Fondling it with my—fuzzy Angora gloves?
Down where—pearl-handled death lurks
A he/she hit-man—transvestite gangster?



Killer in Drag



A nice premise—without much promise
Eddie’s good at it—failure breeds contempt
Finally I’m getting into it—pulp fiction pays
LA muse needs cash—needs it now
Hollywood Babylon—be my sugar daddy
Mulholland Drive—give me what I need
Movie-making—as higher form of drag?

Eddy’s smooth—he’s smooth at it
He/she doesn’t think—much about plot
After the beginning—it’s totally impromptu
His impromptu novels—a lot like his movies
Spontaneous screenwriting—pure ad lib
Inside he’s getting—nowhere fast
Lots of campy mileage—outta Bela Lugosi
Let me count the ways—Dracula sucks…


Killer in Drag



Fugitive transvestites—desolate characters
Fleeing Transylvania—cute Balkan boyfriends
Eddie once saw a photo—of teenage Bela
Fell in love with him—when nobody cared
Cared about his eyes—his hands, his lips
The dialog of an aging—Prince of Darkness?

Let me count the ways—Eddie ad lib’s it
Fake dreams—faux longings & lust
Not bad back then—decorous melodramas
Surprisingly provocative—for being broke
Impressionable young—literary minds
Even today—wooed by the love affair
Caught up by—The Wake of the Red Witch?


Cleaving Ed Wood Jr.



Shocking Biopic

Criswell: Can your heart stand the
shocking facts of the true story of
Edward D. Wood Jr.?

pulp fiction—was his passion
camp movies—were his obsession
women—were his inspiration
angora sweaters—were his weakness.
drag—was his downfall

Cleaving Ed Wood Jr.



Jailbait (2009)—The Movie

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4hz_5IF69_k&feature=related


“I came down like water

For the age of solar

Hail to the father

Kiss your sons and daughters

Goodbye goodbye”

—Shudder to Think,
Ballad of Maxwell Demon

I came down—like water
I came down—like champagne
I came down—like Canadian Royal
I came down—like a Silver Bullet
I came down—just for you!!!

Knock knock—on your door!!!
Knock knock—who’s that baby!!!
Knock knock—c’mon you know who!!!
Knock knock—comin’ down like water!!!
Knock knock—oh baby, just for you!!!

Got sick and tired of wasting—my time
C’mon—show me the way down

Never mind—all those other boyz
Coming around—here no more

Sometimes I wonder—if I'm still alive
Six feet down under—six inside you!!!

Despite the duress—always getting pissed
It's the only sure-fire way—to win you over

Your love can’t hurt me—Bijou matinee boy!!!
I'm here to celebrate—the one below
At last I know—The Plan 9 From Outer Space!!!
Slap me on my ass—gimme your lipstick-love!!!


Cleaving Johnny Depp



Jailbait (2009)

“I'll be the captain
of your gravity, Maxwell”
—Shudder to Think, Hot One

There I was—sitting on the Throne
Leisurely reading—thru the latest
Lamparski—Hollywood Memoirs
Whatever Happened—To Whoever
You Know—What’s His Name?

Suddenly—Ed Wood Jr. appeared!!!
Just as surprised—and startled as me!!!
He was on the lamb—as usual…
A mob of bill-collectors—angry & irate
Chasing him furtively—thru my Bathroom!!!

I couldn’t believe it—Ed Wood Jr.!!!
Star of Hollywood’s—Worst Campy Movies!!!
Infant terrible Director—Eddie El Supremo!!!
Still on the Go—Ratty Risque Impresario!!!
Genius Playwright—Queen of Schlock!!!

Screamy Star—of Glen or Glenda!!!
Decadent Diva—Bride of the Monster!!!
Skanky Snake—of That Sinister Urge!!!
Father of—Romero’s Night of the Living Dead!!!
Prissy Gourmet Director—Orgy of the Dead!!!

How can one refuse—such a Smooth Hustler!!!
I give him all I have—my Swiss Bank Account!!!
Along with Norma Desmond’s—Family Jewels
Betty, Joan and I—left always wondering…
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane Bad Boy?

Everybody knows—how much Schlock sucks!!!
I used to cruise—up & down Hollywood Boulevard
Schlock, kitsch, camp—Grade Z Cinema du jour!!!
Like Nathanael West’s—The Day of the Locusts!!!
Ed Wood Jr.—true Hollywood Miss Lonelyhearts!!!

Down thru my shower curtains—Bill Collectors!!!
Irate Heavenly Rubes—taken in by Eddie’s scams!!!
In swooping Bela Lugosi herself—wanting more money!!
After all Bride of the Monster—a Huge Success!!!
Celestial Dressing Room—my lowly Bathroom!!!

All the Hollywood Bijous—of the Heavenly Dead
Clamoring at the Pearly Gates—for their Cut…
Business is business—Posthumous or not!!!
All of them anxious—in their own greedy way…
For Mr. Cecile DeMille’s—lewd Close-up Shot!!!

It was, my dears—The Rush Hour of the Gods!!!
Leaving me face-down—in my lukewarm tub
Jangled in my Jacuzzi—dead as William Holden
At least I wasn’t left—on a slab in the Morgue!!!
Nevertheless I felt like—an old Hollywood Whore!!!

Speaking of old whores—Billy Wilder smirked
Reassuring me thru—all the coming rehearsals
How easy it was—to be an Ace in the Hole!!!
Jan Sterling clamoring down—the old staircase
With her beat-up suitcase—out of Carny USA!!!

That furtive look—in Ed Wood’s eyes, though
Isn’t exactly reassuring—I can tell you honey…
There I am schmoozing—morosely at 3 AM
Bella Lugosi bitching about—another $10,000
Tor Johnson putting—the make on Vampira!!!

Plus Dolores Fuller—Eddie’s patient wife
Going on to Elvis Presley—and Las Vegas fame
Selling a million copies—making her fortune
On the other side—of a Blue Hawaii "45" record
Too bad the money—doesn't arrive sooner…

Pretty soon tho—all of Hollywood’s Bad Boyz!!!
James Dean, Sean Penn—and River Phoenix…
As well as Heath Ledger—so moody as usual
All wanting to star—in Eddie’s latest movie!!!
Teenage Angora Thriller—Jailbait (2009)!!!


Cleaving Gertrude Stein




The Making of Gay Americans

“One of her chapters in The Making
of Americans begins: I write for
myself and strangers.”
—Gertrude Stein, The Autobiography
of Alice B. Toklas

The making of gay americans is something a lot of americans know all about—the making of gay americans is something a lot of americans don’t want to know about—the making of americans is something americans know a lot about and something they don’t want to know a lot about—but what about gay americans and this knowing or not knowing about the making of gay americans—do gay americans want to know about gay americans anymore—because many americans think that’s a moot question for most of america now—especially moot for Metrosexual americans—which is to say these Metrosexual americans don’t particularly care or get excited about being gay anymore—they’re too busy making a living and being Metrosexual in big metropolises like New York City and Los Angels and San Francisco—which is to say they pretty much take being gay for granted—like so many other metropolitan americans now—so that being mainstream and invisible is simply a part of being american whatever—instead of being ghettoized—but then what’s new with that—every minority goes thru it—exile, ghetto, then what—denigration, self-consciousness, pride—followed by what?—the making of metro americana—like any other making of americans—the making of gay americans into something totally bourgeois—like getting a job getting married getting laid getting divorced getting dead getting kids—the deconstruction of ghetto-consciousness—the urbanization of gay parades and bookstores and ghettos and neighborhoods—the acclamation and schmaltzification of making of gay americans into the making of something else—something beyond families and jobs and homes and cemeteries—something that redefines what the GLBT alphabet soup means—because gay metro-americans are metropolis-minded—which is to say that intergenerational prejudice, struggle and interracial die-off of wrinklies from previous generations—makes the making of gay americans into something new—something autobiographical like the autobiography of alice b. toklas—written by her lover gertrude stein—when writing for oneself is like living for oneself—when one lives and writes for oneself—and strangers—making of gay americans into something new—something autobiographical like the autobiography of alice b. toklas—written by her lover gertrude stein—when writing for oneself is like living for oneself—when one lives and writes for oneself—and strangers of gay americans into the making of something else—something beyond families and jobs and homes and cemeteries—something that redefines what the GLBT alphabet soup means—because gay metro-americans are metropolis-minded—which is to say that intergenerational prejudice, struggle and interracial die-off of wrinklies from previous generations—makes the americana—like any other making of americans—the making of gay americans into something totally bourgeois—like getting a job getting married getting laid getting divorced getting dead getting kids—the deconstruction of ghetto-consciousness—the urbanization of gay parades and bookstores and ghettos and neighborhoods—the acclamation and schmaltzification of making being gay fore granted—like so many other metropolitan americans now—so that being mainstream and invisible is simply a part of being american whatever—instead of being ghettoized—but then what’s new with that—every minority goes thru it—exile, ghetto, then what—denigration, self-consciousness, pride—followed by what?—the making of metro americans—which is to say these Metrosexual americans don’t particularly care or get excited about being gay anymore—they’re too busy making a living and being Metrosexual in big metropolises like New York City and Los Angels and San Francisco—which is to say they pretty much take to know a lot about—but what about gay americans and this knowing or not knowing about the making of gay americans—do gay americans want to know about gay americans anymore—because many americans think that’s a moot question for most of america now—especially moot for Metrosexual The making of gay americans is something a lot of americans know all about—the making of gay americans is something a lot of americans don’t want to know about—the making of americans is something americans know a lot about and something they don’t want—of americans know all about—the making of gay americans is something a lot of americans don’t want to know about—the making of americans is something americans know a lot about and something they don’t want and this knowing or not knowing about the making of gay americans—do gay americans want to know about gay americans anymore—because many americans think that’s a moot question for most of america now—especially moot for Metrosexual The making of gay americans is something a lot care or get excited about being gay anymore—they’re too busy making a living and being Metrosexual in big metropolises like New York City and Los Angels and San Francisco—which is to say they pretty much take to know a lot about—but what about gay americans now—so that being mainstream and invisible is simply a part of being american whatever—instead of being ghettoized—but then what’s new with that—every minority goes thru it—exile, ghetto, then what—denigration, self-consciousness, pride—followed by what?—the making of metro americans—which is to say these Metrosexual americans don’t particularly americans into something totally bourgeois—like getting a job getting married getting laid getting divorced getting dead getting kids—the deconstruction of ghetto-consciousness—the urbanization of gay parades and bookstores and ghettos and neighborhoods—the acclamation and schmaltzification of making being gay fore granted—like so many other metropolitan americans beyond families and jobs and homes and cemeteries—something that redefines what the GLBT alphabet soup means—because gay metro-americans are metropolis-minded—which is to say that intergenerational prejudice, struggle and interracial die-off of wrinklies from previous generations—makes the americana—like any other making of americans—the making of gay making of gay americans into something new—something autobiographical like the autobiography of alice b. toklas—written by her lover gertrude stein—when writing for oneself is like living for oneself—when one lives and writes for oneself—and strangers of gay americans into the making of something else—something happens—what is it?




Cleaving Niijuni Seiichi

Writing on the Wall
—for Haruki Murakami / Niikuni Seiichi

Translation is a kind of therapy for me, and the act of translating—nothing less than a spiritual rehabilitation—once I had finished the translation—I found myself wanting to write fiction again—it seemed to me that the very thing that could authenticate my existence was for me to go on living and writing—even if that meant that I would have to experience continued loss and loathing in the world—all I could do was go on living this way—this was me; this was my place—me; this was my place in the world—all I could do was go on living this way—this was what it meant that I would have to experience continued loss and loathing so I could authenticate my existence—it was for me to go on living and writing—even not wanting to write fiction again—it seemed to me that everything was translating itself—nothing less than a spiritual rehabilitation—once I had finished the translation—I found myself in a style of translation that was a kind of therapy for me—and the act of me, and the act of having finished the translation of myself—I found myself doing a kind of translation as a kind of therapy for me that was the very thing I was translating—nothing less than a physical rehabilitation—once I got into living and writing—even not wanting to ever write fiction again—my writing seemed to experience continued loss and loathing—it didn’t want to authenticate my existence—it was for itself and not me to go on living this way—this was it meant that it would have me; this was its place—in the world—all I could do was translate myself into it—all I could do was what it meant that it would possess me; this was my place—to authenticate its existence which was for me to go on living that way—this was if I wanted to write fiction again—it seemed to experience continued loss and loathing if I didn’t write fiction—anything else was less than a spiritual rehabilitation—once I got into Living Fiction and writing it—even the wanting is a kind of therapy for me that becomes the very thing that I was translating—nothing me, and the act of having finished the translation—I found myself in translation—inside the translation—I found myself translating the very thing that I was translating—nothing me, with the act of translation going on living and writing—even wanting became a kind of therapy for me—experiencing continued loss and loathing could be less than a spiritual or physical rehabilitation—once I got into living that way—this was what it was like to write fiction again—it seemed to be this was my place—to authenticate my existence was for me write into world—all I could do was that—it meant that I was writing to be me


River or Sand Bank

empty-handed on a lotus leaf i vanish leave it my coming, my going too simple i entered the world barefoot i now leave, once bent this way and that bitter happenings that got entangled like dew drops later, river willow, open up your buds all? pampas grass, aimless flight thus i return—to the source into the future, present, winds of winter—but clear—no doubt about it going all is clear—without a doubt what then, flowing—each to each meeting midway—and slicing the void—inwardly meeting midway—and slicing the void—inwardly past coming all is Interruptions inhale—exhale forward—backwards living—dying breaths—letting go no more flowing—each to each is what then, is all? pampas grass, aimless flight thus i return—to the source into the future, present, past coming all is Interruptions inhale—exhale forward—backwards living—dying breaths—letting go no more empty-handed i entered the world barefoot i now leave, once bent this way and that bitter winds of winter—but clear—no doubt about it going all is clear—without a doubt on a lotus leaf i vanish leave it my coming, my going two simple happenings that got entangled like dew drops later, river willow, open up your buds on a lotus leaf i vanish leave it my coming, my going two simple happenings that got entangled like dew drops later, river willow, open up your buds empty-handed i entered the world barefoot i now leave, once bent this way and that bitter winds of winter—but clear—no doubt about it going all is clear—without a doubt what then, is all? pampas grass, aimless flight thus i return—to the source into the future, present, past coming all is Interruptions inhale—exhale forward—backwards living—dying breaths—letting go no more flowing—each to each meeting midway—and slicing the void—inwardly meeting midway—and slicing the void—inwardly past coming all is Interruptions inhale—exhale forward—backwards living—dying breaths—letting go no more flowing—each to each is all? pampas grass, aimless flight thus i return—to the source into the future, present, winds of winter—but clear—no doubt about it going all is clear—without a doubt what then, i entered the world barefoot i now leave, once bent this way and that bitter happenings that got entangled like dew drops later, river willow, open up your buds empty-handed on a lotus leaf i vanish leave it my coming, my going two simple

Saramago Interrupted



Saramago Interrupted

“Here the sea ends
and the earth begins”
—José Saramago,
The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis

Sometimes I think that Life—is the real Interruption.
I mean after all—Saramago travels to Lisbon
His journey in search of—a fellow writer.
Fernando Pessoa? Or is it himself—he’s after?
Interrupting sixteen years in Brazil. Why?

Why interrupt your life—for the death?
The death of another writer—like Fernando Pessoa?
Ricardo Reis? Or anybody?

Leaving behind Buenos Aires—on a steamer.
Shipwrecking oneself—in the same old ports?
La Plata, Montevideo—Santos, Rio de Janeiro?
Pernambuco, Las Palmas—some dumpy tramp steamer?
Back and forth—on the Highland Brigade.
A Royal Mail Liner—how quaint compared
With today’s supersonic—jet rides to Lisbon?

No time for interruptions—no time for seasickness.
No time for rough weather—delicate stomachs.
No sitting around on deck—contemplating existence.

Everything is so fast now—beyond our reach.
No more old-fashioned writing—and thinking
About death the way—it used to be thought of?
At least—by writers anyway…

Death is in a hurry—just like life.
There’s nothing romantic—about it anymore.
No time—no more time for interruptions.
It’s all simply—one tightly segued metronome.
With a gangplank—at the end.

Death is a business—Saramago gets into that.
Death is what binds—Church and State.
It’s the glue that seemingly—binds everything.
The bankrupt New World Order—together kinda.

But Death’s Narrative too—the way writers talk.
The way writers & poets—talk with each other.
Fernando Pessoa—appears to Ricardo Reis.
Language owes its fascination—to such contradictions.
Death survives death—and speaks with itself.
So that when Saramago—and Pessoa speak or
When one of their heteronyms—get down under
Each other’s skin—there’s a conversation.

Knock, knock!!! Who’s there?
It’s Roberto Bolaño—plus his own literary enjambments.
Interrupting Death—with news from the other side.
The other side? It’s simply another writer’s story:
The Year of the Death of Roberto Bolaño—added to the
Chit-chat conversationalese—of Pessoa & Saramago.

Dead poets are a talkative lot—they love to gossip.
At least that’s how I see Death—with Interruptions.
What is interrupting Death? Life?
What is the still mysterious cause—of the disappearance?
The disappearance of Death? Is it Literature?
Apparently so—since Saramago does it nicely.
A pretty good job of it—interrupting it…

Cleaving Mishima




Yukio Mishima
—for Donald Richie

I used—a candle flame
to light—my cigarette
mishima’s—anniversary
toward the end—hemingway
got his attention—so butch

he booked—a room
at the—tokyo hilton
to be—unrecognized
for writing—alone
the other—purposes

we talked—but not
usually—literary matters
on the outside—he was
confessions—of a mask
chilly like—the snows of
cold—kilimanjaro

he lived it—more than
just writing it—saint
sebastian—the fantasies
some men get—after a
sudden—spastic insight

macho—posturings
the last—samurai’s act
leaving us—flabbergasted
his chorus—readers and
friends—what a waste

why do we—take things
so seriously—introverted
adolescence—fluency
97 lb weakling—then
intense bodybuilder—why
the hemingway—façade?

Tanka-Cleaving





Five Tanka-Cleaves

Mt. Rainier

"when I compose poetry
I compose only for myself"
—Nakamura Kasatao

I'm obscure—insignificant
my cleaves—immature
my expression—inadequate
the falling rain—how far
away—Rainier is receding

Hodō (Pavement)

mishima yukio—is dead
how many—postwar periods
does it take—to revive tanka
each time—boyhood wisteria
ancient fossils—limestone sidewalks
moonlit night—crinoids wiggling

Saitō Mokichi (1882-1953)

one foot on a—rotten banana peel
only a few steps—away from me
yolk of death—fricassée à la ancienne
the wretched rain—reminding me of
elizabeth taylor—rains of ranchipur

Self-Portrait

a self-portrait—of van gogh
weekend—swirling stars overhead
a cross-eyed man—Carnivàle-esque
making me feel—like gulping down
the palm of my—screaming hand

Mt. Fuji / Mt. Rainier

in the evening—darkness sunsets
untouched by—freeway headlights
a seagull flies—flying upward
aspiration for heights—clouds tailing
across the face—Mt. Fuji / Rainier

Cleaving Tsukamoto Kunio



Some Poems for Tsukamoto Kunio

“You have restored an
important part of Japanese
aesthetic sensibility that
had been forgotten in
Modern Japan.”
—Mishima Yukio

"Zenei-tanka"—the avant-garde school of short poetry

"Cleave-tanka"—new avant-garde school of short poetry


early spring day—today
a country—on the brink
of economic—collapse
while my—boyfriend
nails me—on the sofa

hands holding—a rose
hands holding—a pen
hands holding—my lover
his legs—around my neck
blowing my—brains out

hidden inside—a velvet glove
a steel—wedding ring
manhandling it—won’t quit
liquid—explosive words
a dark gadget—pink head

all the way—from rooftop
garden—down to the basement
a leaky—water pipe pierces
all the bedrooms—and lovers
of our apartment—building

even while—I watch
heath ledger—dark knight
the window—leaks cold
beams of light—into the room
from the—steel fire-escape

from a tokyo—pigsty
to a kyoto—penthouse
power lines—extend thru me
when he—plugs me into
the withered—sagging futon

because—they’re retired
saved from death—by money
and good health care—this
condo of rich—famous retirees
doesn’t—stink like a graveyard

only when—his Taser©
runs out of—go-juice
his dildo batteries—dead
only then—the voiceless
hum of his—electric guitar

a vase—on display
at the—fancy mortuary
so cool—so cloisonné
saying—rest in peace
with class—expensively

as night falls—slowly
over Japantown—tonight
his shiny stomach—the young
life insurance salesman—comes
selling me—instant death

pulling back—the clean
white sheets—of a motel bed
a straining—double-barrel
shotgun marriage—waits
hiding under—a pillow

stalwart—Olympic gymnasts
strut around—with gold metals
hanging down—from ribbons
around their—muscular necks
veiny like—testicular cordage

before deluge—after deluge
the gurgling—aquarium always
clean—with fresh water and
new fish—swimming inside a
Sodom & Gomorrah—douche

Mardi Gras—morning-after
on the wet—pavement
in the French Quarter—where
a dead drunk—pretends to
be deader—than I am

on a blue—dystopian day
beyond the—land of Atlantis
where once—suffered
too many—reincarnations
as a fat woman’s—poodle

on the lake—floats a rubber
slick and—skanky as ever
like a dead rat—closed eyes
still enjoying—the shame
of having—passed-out again

standing still—by the cabana
Bayliner bobbing—by the dock
under the seagull—scudding sky
I wonder—if death is really
twilight gold—or just tinfoil?






Cleaving Spring



Hojoki Horoscope

“Venus in the
pale green sky”
—Kenneth Rexroth,
“Spring,” Hojoki

Venus—exactly Sextiles
Aquarian Jupiter—at 7:35 AM
Under a bar—of morning light
The moon—opposing Uranus
In conjunction—with Sol
Leaving me—Void of Course
Through the day—mostly with
The memory—of the year
Passing thru—then Pluto
Squaring Luna—in Libra
Sitting by the fire—letting my
Rice boil—in the growing dusk
Rain coming—down through
The cedars—abysmal lake

Spring

“A thing unknown
for years”
—Kenneth Rexroth,
“Spring,” Hojoki

A thing—unknown for years
Sleeping—until March cherry
Trees—begin to bloom
First crocuses—green blades
Then the lone—male robin
Catching worms—getting ready
For her—ahead of time
It’s—enough for now


Priscilla—Snotty von Snout



Priscilla—Snotty von Snout

Priscilla—Snotty von Snout
Prettiest—Piggy No Doubt
Pouty—Picky Picayune
Prefers—Petunias in June
Princess—of Poughkeepsie Poop
Proud—her Poop doesn’t Plop
Pert—Porky Pig in the Pink
Promenading—Pork of Central Park
Proud—of her Snarky Snout
Pleased—little Pork-Chop Piglette
Pauses—by the Pig Sty Cafe
Pretending—to Portray some Leg
Playfully—Pondering the Parade
Perturbed—by Park Avenue Chic
Paled—by Ponzi Porky Pig Greed
Puzzled—by Stock Market Putrescence
Pushing—Mrs. Palin as POTUS
Pausing—to Pork Out at Wendy’s
Pushing—her Protruding Cell Phone
Pushing—it Deeper into her Blue Rinse
Penetrating—her Pulsating Pituitary Gland
Pusillanimously—Perambulating Pinhead


New York Chic



New York Chic

How chic—my penthouse garden
My cute little Manhattan—cabbage patch
Overlooking Central Park—how sophisticated
I’m proud, my dears—to inform all of you
I’m the first Metrosexual—to have martinis
While I nibble on—my own chic corn cobs!!!
How gauche—and yet so Obama de rigueur!!!
Putting my nelly—Wall Street shoulder
Against the Great Ponzi—Wheel of Fortune!!!
To Bail Out the Bank of America—so adroitly
With my corn patch—in the NYC Sky!!!
I can even tolerate—this tacky rash on my booty.
Surely, it’s just a little—global warming rash.
Truly, my dears—it’s Gawd’s Little Acre
Way up here—above Fifth Avenue!!!
Let the Stock Market—eat cake, honey!!!

Sean Penn



Proposition Hate

What is the relationship
of morality to the art of
the poet in this society?
This society not conspicuous
for any morality?”
—Kenneth Rexroth,
The Alternate Society

I

What morality?
Bush morality?—Nixon morality?
Neocon morality?—Watergate morality?
Viet Nam morality?—Desert Storm morality?
Iraq morality?—Guantánamo morality?
Wall Street morality?—Bank Bailout Morality?
Mortgage Scam Morality?—Ponzi Morality?
Transparent morality?—Rove morality?
Proposition Hate morality?—Gay morality?
Straight morality?—Commonsensical morality?
Heterosexual morality?—Mormon morality?
Jerry Fartwell morality?—FOX-News morality?
Sarah Palin morality?—Holy Roller morality?
Beltway Lobbyist morality?—Big Oil morality?
Evita Peron morality?—Generalissimo morality?
Kent State morality?—Bankruptcy morality?
Gone IRA & 401 K morality?—Depression morality?
Ratty Repugnant Republican Rip-Off morality?
What morality?

II

Let’s start with—Proposition Hate.
How the rich Mormons—queered California.
How the rich Mormons—queered America USA.
How the rich Mormons—recruited Hate.
How they recruited—Blacks and Wrinklies.
How the Mormons—queered the 2008 Election.
How the Mormons—queered the Older Generation.
How the Mormons—turned Blacks against us too.
It was easy as pie—the Obama mood was high.
The Mormons—recruited Blacks & Wrinklies…
To vote away—Gay Marriage already on the Books.
Like the Nazis—the Mormons did it retroactively.

III

Saying “Ooops!!!”—You’re not married after all!!
Saying “Surprise!!!”—No marriage rights for Fags!!!
Saying “Straights Rule!!!”—Excommunicate Queers!!!
Saying “So what America???”—Jaysus Christ was stra8ht!!!
Saying “See ya Milk & Moscone!!!”—Too Bad You’re Dead!!!
Saying “Get to the Back of the Bus!!!”—make it Snappy!!!
Saying “Get the Poets first!!!”—GLBT Lit stinks!!!
Saying “Let’s ban Ginsberg again!!!—Let them Howl!!!
Saying “Poop on Proust!!!”—No more Sky over Andover!!!
Saying “Goodbye Whitman!!!”—No Poet Laureates for you!!!
Saying “Take your Leaves of Grass!!!”—and stuff it!!!
Saying “Goodbye Hart Crane”—it’s Orizaba for you!!!
Saying “So Long Frank O’Hara”—NYC once loved you!!!
Saying “Bye Heath Ledger!!!”—Brokeback Mountain adieu!!!
Saying “Goodbye River Phoenix!!!”—No more Idaho for you!!
Saying “Hey!!! Sean Penn!!!”—What to do now, man???



Moon Sitting



Moon Sitting
—for Hin Yung

chenuis falls—sitting here
carbon river valley—cliffs
overhead—sitting facing
mount rainier—slanting sun
my gay—dharma heart

Translating Rexoth



Translating Kenneth Rexroth
—for Hin Yung

I go—bookworming
through—vast libraries
works by—famous writers
day by day—trying to
understand—the mystery
of love—does it exist?

Cat Fights!!!



High Class Cat Fights

I love cat-fights!!!

Whether hoity-toity high-class Snarke…

Or white-trash down-in-the-gutter catty bitch-fights.

I always learn something from nasty dirty cat-fights…

Like how to be a better bitch myself…

There’s always room for improvement I say…

One never knows when the next bitch fight may fall…

Weezo and Mad—are good at dishy repartee…

I’d love to see them—in a Las Vegas casino act…

While Hoffman waits until the time is right…

Then she slowly nonchalantly inserts…

Her naughty little satirical dagger…

Oh!!! Ouch!!! Ouch!!! Ouch!!!

Great Fun!!! I crave dishy cat-fights!!!

To Be or Not To Be



To Be or Not to Be Douchebag

To be a douchebag—
Or not to be a douchebag,
That is the question; whether 'tis nobler in the mind
To suffer the douchebaggery of outrageous fortune,
Or to douche back against a sea of assholes,
And by opposing, end them?

To douche, to douche—
To douche; and by that douching end
The douchebaggery and all the tacky little douches
That flesh is heir to — 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be douched.

To douche, to douche—
To sleep, perchance to douche in dreams.
Ay, there's the rub, for in that sleep of douche
What douchey nightmares may come,
When we have shuffled off this douchebag coil,
Must give us pause.

There's no respect—
For a douchebag that makes trouble
Most of his or her long life, for who would
Bear the snark and scorns of time,
The neocon oppressor's wrong, republican contumely,
The pangs of douchebag love, stock market crashes,
The insolence of politicians, and the rip-offs
When the patient bailout the unworthy banks?


When he or she might closet-case be—
A mere lurker in the background of cruel time,
To grunt and sweat a constipated life,
Fearing the dread douchebaggery after death,
The douchebag country from whose birth
No douchebag denizen returns, puzzles the will,
Making us rather bear those douches we have
Than flaunt to others what we know not of?


Thus douchebag conscience—
Makes douchebag cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of free speech
Is slimed over with the pale tint of doubt,
And elections both great and momentous
Get flushed down the toilet of despair,
All in the name of douchebaggery.