str8t boyz


Everybody knows—

Drag rules the world, baby

Everybody’s got their—
Own darke drag routine

My darke drag routine—
Is str8t boy drag

That’s why I’m talking—
To you, man


Can Str8t Boyz do Drag?—

Queried a curious Fag Hag

 Well, of course, honey!!!
 I’ll bet you Money!!!

They wanna get Pegged—
They’ve even begged

 Gimme that Dildo!!!
 And quick a Pillow!!! 


“Which reminds me—

I can’t afford to waste
another minute”
—Martin Goldsmith, Detour

I don’t know—
Guyz are funny and
Not just sometimes

A fag can like—
Semaphore every
Signal in the book

Before a guy—
Wakes up & finds the
Cruise is over

Now take Raul…


“It was a trifle overdone,

in movie parlance”
—Martin Goldsmith, Detour

I was fucking around—
Much too much trying
To be Lady Gaga

You gotta underplay it—
A casting director told me
Don’t overdo it…

I couldn’t help myself—
I kept ending up in hot water
Looking around for the douche


Forget your spiel—

I’ll listen to it but
I know it already

Even before you—
Open your big mouth
On the written page

You’re nothing but a—
White trash tramp so
Skip the make-believe

And don’t give me—
That old line about
Confession’s good for soul


C’mon don’t tell me—
You’re just another noir
Badboy femme fatale

Just another piece of—
White trash pulp fiction
Young hustler romance?

C’mon gimme a break—
You’ve gotta be kidding
Nobody will believe me

The Lord may be my—
Shield and comfort but who’s
Gonna publish this crap?


“There’s nothing so much—
like one road as another road”
—Martin Goldsmith, Detour

There’s nothing so much—
Like one detour being like
Another, know what I mean?

I had to get going fast—
And keep going, where
It just didn’t matter

Part of me was dead—
Still there in San Francisco
Then I was in Seattle

I felt easier in Seattle—
Hard up or not because
Seattle was so fag noir


After a face lift—

And gay brain transplant
Up on Pacific Heights

I got into a brief detour—
Being a fag poet there
At City Lights Bookstore

Not so bad really—
Considering who I was
Running around with

Farewell, My Lovely—
Kiss Me Deadly and
The Long Goodbye Kid

I was ready for it, baby—
Norma Desmond’s Sunset Blvd
Floating there in the pool


And so here I am—

All those cheesy detours

And divagations later

I try to forget but—
Can’t help wondering who
Might have taken my place

If I hadn’t started—
Letting the muse be there
In my driver’s Seat

If fate or some kind of—
Deal with the Devil hadn’t
Stopped to pick me up


Writing was like Debate—

It couldn’t he taught like
Math and the Sciences

It was like Acting—
Some people were naturals
At it and others weren’t

MFA Programs—
In creative writing rackets
Are popular now

It used to be—
Only English Departments
Monopolized the muse


Now every ding-bat—
College and university
Claims to be in the know

How do I know—
Whether it’s completely
Lassie-faire or not?

Learning how to type—
Could very well be one’s
Best first shot

My IBM Selectric—
Stuffed in the closet
Can’t give it away


Voice recognition—
And handwriting too
Makes for Word enlightenment

E-books and E-mail—
Making writing tres fast
And instantaneous

Even the NYTimes—
Shifting from newspapers
And print culture to

Online composition—
Like university texts
And homework now


Kindle and Nook—
Just the tip of Madame
Moderne’s Learning Curve

She still does longhand—
Writing notes to herself
Lazy mornings in bed

She has this oh so lovely—
Leaning Tower of Pisa books
On her crowded Nightstand

She still has the evil cat—
On her lap as she sips a
Cup of tea in the morning


But something has—
Changed with her being
A writer in Seattle

Like Miss Proust—
Trying to remember
Back into the future

Paul Bowles—
Letting the pages
Write themselves

Arthur Rimbaud—
Letting words slide
Surreal bateau ivre

Joseph Cornell—
Streamlining flicks
Rose Hobart flashbacks

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