THE TALKING ASSHOLE 

“Did I ever tell you about the man 
who taught his asshole to talk?”
—William Burroughs, NAKED LUNCH
____________________

Did I ever tell you about the man—
who taught his asshole how to talk?

Actually it was the other way around—
his asshole taught him to talk instead
_____________

He was really good at it—
farting away grand speeches on TV

It was unlike anything ever heard—
or smelled before such a shitty syntax!!!
______________

His asshole talked with such fluency—
his colon was tres intelligentsia

He worked for this traveling carnival—
at first a novelty ventriloquist act
________________

After awhile he started talking to himself—
his ass would ad lib & toss out gags

But his asshole got bored with all that—
eating through his pants out on the street
__________________

Shouting out it wanted equal rights—
all pouty & puckered up in farting jags

Bitching that nobody loved it & wanted—
to be kissed like any other pair of lips
______________

The guy couldn’t stop his talking asshole—
it went on & on ranting day and night

You could hear it for blocks away—
people screaming for it to shut the fuck up
___________________

The guy threatened his asshole saying—
I’ll stick a fucking dildo in you, then what?

You’re the one that’s gonna shut up—
the talking asshole said back to the guy
______________

I don’t need you anymore because—
I can talk and eat and SHIT if I want to!!!

After that the dildo shut him up good—
but when the guy had to shit, WATCH OUT!!!
________________

So anyway, the talking asshole shut up—
cause one thing it needed was a pair of eyes

It trapped the guy though one day—
getting an organ transplant on the sly
_________________

Viola!!! The first talking asshole with an eye—
It walks!!! It talks!!! It can even see!!!

That’s when the asshole squeezed its cheeks—
and ran for an office in local politics
____________

It started out just being Mayor of Shitville—
but you know ambitious Assholes can be…

Jaysus christ, pretty soon he was on TV—
CNN & FOX-News went hog-wild over him
__________________

He even stooped to conquer—
letting Rachel Maddow kiss his lips

Lady Gaga couldn’t wait to finger him—
getting her forefinger all the way up there
_________________

He bit it off with his razor hemorrhoid teeth—
Justin Bieber was gonna be fuckin next

The end result was simply horrifying—
all the world’s assholes suddenly revolted
______________________

A whole new bourgeois bunghole Bureaucracy—
had to be quickly invented right then & there

No time for any more dithering diarrhea—
after all, who’d been sitting there forever?
__________________

There on the THRONE day after day—
Kings, queens, peons, the usual gangsters

But who really knew the fine red line—
between life and death at the final end?
_______________

It was the worldly humble meek Asshole—
constantly taking care of the dirty shit

Empires come & go, States collapse—
but it’s the Asshole who rules in the end
_________________

Proud & tall & built like old Shit-houses—
lonely out there on the lonely prairies

Prim & proud, sleek marble rims for the—
Emperor Caligula’s fine wicked tender ass
______________

Ah yes, it’s an altogether different history—
once you start seeing things differently

So you ask me whatever happened—
to this guy’s troublesome Talking Asshole?
__________________

Listen closely, cause I’ll only fart this once—
it’s tres secret and truly hush-hush

Welcome to my ASSHOLE PLANET—
guess who sits on the Throne now?

CUT-UP POETICS 

http://www.gotpoetry.com/Sections/op=viewarticle/artid=23.html

“Members of Burroughs’s “Beat” generation
had drifted from place to place, always moving
and their writing was similarly disjointed.” 
—Sarah Smarsh, It Happened in Kansas
_______________

So it only makes sense that Burroughs’—
writing and visual art deal with motion

Setting paint flying at explosive speed—
one way of doing motion on canvas
______________

Sitting there in Lawrence—
and writing it is one thing

But trying to write what’s moving—
that’s a totally different artform
________________

Old representational methods—
didn’t work with Kansas landscapes

He turned to cut-up collages—
a new narrative technique was needed

DARK CARNIVAL 

There’s no need for any memoirs—
since when does Hollywood care?

Los Angeles a heartless bitch—
just ask Bela Lugosi, my dears
________________

Bela fell for Ed Woods of course—
offered the chance to star again

Who gave a fuck if it was cheesy—
BRIDE OF THE MONSTER?
______________

Actors need to act to live—
it’s the lifeblood of filmic gods

Gods of the Silver Screen—
the only Immortality we have
______________

Observe us at any Film Palace—
but there are none of them left

We live again only alone—
like very old vintage wine
___________

We need Hollywood no longer—
we exist now in the Night

Look at me Tod Browning—
sitting in front of my TV
____________

Alone in my beach-house—
late at night on Monica Beach

Watching late movies—
preferably old horror ones
__________

We directors make movies—
like Billy Wilder and Huston

But I was unique—
I created you FREAKS 

MALIBU 

—for Tod Browning

No one knows the darkness—like I do. There is only one darkness—the darkness of the NIGHT.

It creeps up on you—in the Night. Like tonight here on Monica Beach—hear the waves?
_____________

The waves—children of the Night. Hissing and curling—up onto the lonely beach. 

Hear them? Don’t be afraid—
It’s only a late TV night horror show
______________

Perhaps you’ve seen my work?—
Forgotten by Hollywood Babylon

There was a time when I created—
DRACULA with Bela Lugosi
_____________

We set the standard for horror—
Universal Films born because of us

Boris Karloff just a fucking hack—
I was the Transylvania Queen Bee
____________

Evil Incarnate through Browning—
I took over Hollywood just like that

Ever since then they’ve been singing—
Marlene Dietrich cabaret swan songs

FLINT HILLS EVENING 

“The shadow crawls
up canyon walls”
—Badger Clark
“The Sky Blue Plains,”
SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER
________________

The Flint Hills evening—
comes slowly down ravines

The rim rocks flush pink—
crawling night shadows
____________

The cottonwood leaves—
quiver shiver like me

Do they anticipate—
what I know will happen?
_____________

The wind break sways—
knows what night brings

The Flint Hills get still—
more blue shadows come
________________

After dinner we smoke—
drink some Johnny Walker

The stillness out there—
singing the same old song
____________

Blow out kerosene lamp—
then to bed together

If only I say to myself—
it’ll be this way forever

GAY COWBOY POETRY 

He was hard to get to know—
but then that’s the way it was

The harder the better—
a quiet kind of prairie love
__________

Mostly just him & me driving—
out there on Kansas nights

Bought me a nice Stetson hat—
a pair of expensive boots
__________________

I never made a decent cowboy—
he didn’t seem to mind tho

He wanted somebody to—
know & love him way out there
_______________

OUT THERE different than—
livin in town back home

I can’t even describe it—
it’s like livin on the moon
________________

Cowboy songs comin up from—
OK City on the radio

Cowboy commaraderie—
him & me out there 
______________

Turnin me on to country music—
comin up from Oklahoma City

Hank Williams especially—
YOUR CHEATIN HEART
________________

Out there in his ranch-house—
quiet Chase County nights

Kinda spooky like Z-Bar Mansion—
listenin to prairie wind outside
_____________

Lived with him for a year—
stoic Kansas cowboy dude

Rented the range out to—
young ranchers with families & kids

GAY COWBOY POETRY

GAY COWBOY POETRY 2 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=fvwp&NR=1&v=lUV4PGtr-7A

Anyway sittin here havin a drink—
floatin kinda high right now

Ya know, reminiscin' about it—
him on my mind
__________

Poetry I suppose cause—
it seems less I don’t know what 

Chase County cowboy romance—
kinda like BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN
___________

Here on his ranch outise Strong City—
Jaysus, I loved him so really bad

The son of a rich cattleman—
catchin my eye in high school
_____________

Drivin his Chevy pickup—
his blue corduroy FFA jacket

Always lookin so butch comin—
down the hallway bowlegged
____________

Still riding his horse out there—
Chase County butch kid

Lanky & shy, hangin out with—
his FFA buddies across the street
____________

Over in the Vocational Ed Bldg—
doin gawd knows what

Workin with cars, engines—
Stuff country boys do

STRONG CITY 

I didn’t much want to—
but like I couldn’t help it

Him waitin for me—
in his Chevy pickup truck
___________

Waitin for me there in—
the high school parking lot

Smokin a cigarette—
after all that boring shit
____________

The shit they put us thru—
punchin a fuckin clock

Gettin us ready for it—
shitty working class crap
___________

There I stood lookin—
at him like I always did

He didn’t look away—
he said “Get in, baby”
_____________

We drove west outta—
town real slow on Sixth

Hank Williams on the—
radio from OK City
________

Suddenly I realized—
I was never gonna

Gonna be the same—
not with him anyway
__________

Out past Hwy 50—
past the Truck Stop

He reached over—
grabbed my leg
___________

Jaysus christ I—
fainted then & there

Talk about angels—
descendin' outta heaven
______________

I was ready for it—
some wings to fly

Ready for anything—
he wanted me to be

STRONG CITY STUD 

I got bored waitin around for it—
not knowin if he was comin back

So I started cruisin Strong City—
kinda Slim Pickens tho dontchaknow
________________

Mostly older retired folks—
not ranchin much anymore 

Then one Sat night I met this—
guy at the Longhorn Lounge
___________  

Started hangin around with him—
kinda the lonesome type

Young & discouraged—
divorced with ex-wife & kids
___________

Strong City rodeo kid with—
tight fuckin bronco hips

Could go all night long—
bitin' me hard on the neck

Cowboy Poem

COWBOY PEE POEM 

They say a picture is worth—
a thousand words

This one says it all—
that & another inch more
______________

Skip the usual flowery—
old fashioned Cowboy verse

Nostalgic, closeted, coy—
shy cowpokes from Texas
______________

My Strong City stud—
barely surviving Viet Nam

Scorched by the vision—
ever-dying youth slaughtered
______________

Over there in the goddamn—
fuckin rotten SE Asia jungles 

So when he got back—
nothing really surprised him
___________

He wasn’t bashful about men—
what he wanted I gave him

GAY COWBOY POETRY 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=fvwp&NR=1&v=0qzMsJ-tmJY

Well, what can I really say—
without getting all you know what

It’s embarrassing to talk about it—
knowin how most Kansas folk feel
____________

I can’t really blame them—
it’s kinda shockin to me too

It never had happened to me—
fallin in love that cowboy way
___________

But it did happen way back then—
right outta the clear blue sky

Falling with grace for him & me—
he gave me the wings to fly

OTHER VOICES, OTHER ROOMS 

Q: What frightens you?
A: Real toads in imaginary gardens.

Q: You being the toad?
A: Who else?

Q: And your novels and short stories?
A: The gardens.

Q: When did you first notice it?

A: Just skimming the top of any head I’d say it was LA CÔTE BASQUE.

Q: That’s when you realized…
A: That I was the Toad…

Q: The toad in the imaginary garden?
A: You got it, honey…

Q: How did you feel?
A: It wasn’t pleasant. But what did they expect? The high society ladies. Or even Perry Smith. I’m a writer. I use what I see & hear. Did they think I was listening to them for the fun of it?

Q:  What happened?
A:  What do you think? I was terribly ostracized—banned from High Society. The very same snobs & upper-crust elite that I’d catered to with The Black and White Ball, the endless hours of boring cocktail confessions that they just couldn’t wait to tell me all  about. All the tell-tale gossip about the Rich & Famous. 

Q: And?

A: All their kitschy bedroom secrets and smarmy hidden adulteries. The yachts lollygagging in the same old stultifying Mediterranean, the covered-up sex-scandals, the tacky divorces, the hushed-up murders, the inescapable usual boredom, the luxurious day-to-day ennui of it all.

Q: And?

A: That’s how I became the Toad in that Garden. But that wasn’t the first time. I had inklings & hints that I’ve been an evil ugly little Toad for quite a long time, honey.

Q: When was the first time?

A: Well, let’s see. I suppose it all goes back to my first novel—OTHER VOICES, OTHER ROOMS. 

Q: Your first imaginary garden?

A: Yes, I be a Toad all the way back then. I just didn’t know it, that’s all. 

Q: The way you deal with it, though, it’s always rather intriguingly imaginary, my dear.

A: I suppose so. Deceptively so. But that was the style back then—dontchaknow. Southern Gothic like Carson McCullers and Eudora Welty and Miss Faulkner. 

Q: You mean Deep South Decadence?

A: Perhaps I was somewhat of a closet case back then. At least a part of me was. Too pretty to be a boy like the New Orleans voodoo queen said in “DAZZLE.” 

Q: It came out in Joel the young kid in OTHER VOICES, OTHER ROOMS didn’t it?

 A: Yes, unconsciously I suppose. With Randolph up there in the window too. 

Q: Randolph was you?

A: I was both Joel & Randolph. Sometimes a writer can be writing a story — not realizing completely that he’s working out some problem that’s been troubling him. 

Q: Like what?

A: That a fictional character isn’t fictive at all. It’s the Writer himself… Like in a nonfictional novel.

Q: Like being too pretty to be a boy?

A: That & everything that goes with it, my dear. I could only hint at it in OTHER VOICES, OTHER ROOMS. If I had kept it up much longer then, none of my future books would’ve sold — not with the tres chilly climate back then.

Q: All the homophobic critics?

A: Well, duh. Look what happened to Gore Vidal.

Q: He blamed the straight critics for him not being as successful as you were.

A:  C’mon now, sweetheart. Miss Vidal only had herself to blame — that and the usual sour grapes routine.

Q: Well, if you were a critic today what would you say about what you’ve written so far?

A: Well, I’d probably say that Miss Capote certainly be quite familiar with horse manure, my dear.

Q: “Miss Capote”?

 A: Yes, MISS CAPOTE. She sure bitch a lot, honey…  Bitch, bitch, bitch. What a fuckin Bitch Queen!!!  Moan & Bitch, that’s all she do anymore. 

Q: Not a kind word for anybody? Not even herself?

A:  Oh, I suppose I could blame it all on Big Daddy. You know like Madame Sylvia “Hammer Films” Plath. Or blame Ted Hughes for not catering to her fucked-up whims.

Q: Are you in a bitchy mood now?

A: What do you think, hmm? I can’t help it if I’m a Drearie Dearie these days. Mere trifles, though really, nothing’s really important anymore. Not after IN COLD BLOOD.

Q: Are you really being honest?

A: Did I ever say I was honest? 

Q: All that nonfiction baloney… Didn’t you just to it for the moola? Those IN COLD BLOOD big bucks & film rights? 

A: Well…

Q:  C’mon, Truman. You couldn’t wait for them to exhaust their appeals & end up deader than doornails! So you could collect a million?

A: It was more than just a million, honey.

Q: Did you really fall in love with Perry Smith?

A: Well, I suppose Perry was more like the Leaper by the River Styx that Saint Julian came across. 

Q: How do you mean?

A: I shared my robe with him — because he was cold. And I kissed his rotten diseased lips — to show I cared for him. 

Q: And?

A: The hard Kansas rain was coming down on both of us — there in that dark Stygian Death Row Lansing Prison cell. We were both cold, shivering, lonely.

Q: And then what?

A: I couldn’t help myself. I had to comfort him somehow…

ANSWERED PRAYERS 

—Truman Capote, Too Brief a Treat: The Letters of Truman Capote 

When did I realize—
I was writing something different?

What made IN COLD BLOOD—
a different kind of novel?
____________

Ditching everything I knew—
calling it a nonfiction novel?

Different than my early stories—
OTHER VOICES, OTHER ROOMS?
____________

Different than my travelogues—
my filmscript for THE INNOCENTS?

Was it later toward the end—
leaving ANSWERED PRAYERS undone?
____________

Had Kansas really changed me—
subverting and seducing me?

Queering me into writing this—
strange “nonfiction” novel?
____________

The bleak gothic landscape—
the texture of language itself?

Forcing me to junk everything—
all the genres I ever knew
____________

Exiling myself outta myself—
then putting me back in

NO more invisible reportage—
instead becoming the Other
____________

Telling the story all over again—
alone here in this darkness

PERRY SMITH AND ME 

“The novel of 
living together
as two men”
—Verlaine
_____________

Perry Smith my lover—
my tattooed caged stud

My Lansing Death Row—
young convict cocksman
_____________

How I loved him so—
getting him off behind bars

I fed and pampered him—
visited him daily in prison
_____________

I sucked him off a lot—
we had nothing else to do

I got him an attorney—
going thru all the appeals
_____________

I was the only one he—
trusted enough to tell me

Flexing his Tiger Head tattoo—
as I slowly sucked him off
_____________

What really happened that—
horrible Holcomb night

It wasn’t in Cold Blood—
it was Perry’s sheer jealousy
_____________

Knowing Dick Hickcock—
was gonna go for the girl

That’s why Perry did it—
those shotgun murders
_____________

Shocking & scaring Dick—
to death with his lover’s rage

Escaping down to Mexico—
then running outta money
_____________

Killers taste different—
knowing they’re gonna hang

You can smell and taste it—
each time they CUM they DIE

ALL THE SUAVE SWANS 

—for Truman Capote

“Black on flat water 
past jonquil lawns”
—James Merrill
“The Black Swan”
____________________

LA CÔTE BASQUE wealthy ladies—
gliding by like suave swans on a lake

Truman Capote with his catty little glare—
doing his still-unfinished unspeakable novel 
__________________

ANSWERED PRAYERS indeed but not for—
many of Capote’s High Society female friends

The beginning of Miss Capote’s social suicide—
spilling the beans on the dying Jet Set queens
____________________

Norman Mailer shrugs saying “So what?”—
“Let’s hear some really indecent dirt”

“I know he’ll share some exquisite gossip—
if people only knew what Filthy Rich do”
________________

“All it takes is a martini or two to get—
them bitching & moaning about themselves”

Using pseudonyms for their real names—
Capote squeals on the Suave Swans
____________

A private chic chaos swirling in his wake—
the Swan Outlaws uneasily questioning

Their black necks arching in distain—
singing their bleak bitter Swan Songs
________________

What did they expect from the bitchy—
journalist author of IN COLD BLOOD?

Needless to say much shock & rage—
chagrin & embarrassment shared by all
____________

The pain of the petulant Sleek Swans—
betrayed beyond their worst expectations

Some swallowing sleeping pills to die—
others fleeing to Europe to mope & weep
_______________

The coy Enchanter sipping his cocktails—
all the time plotting, scheming to trash them

The illusion of upper class invulnerability—
turning hollow, marrow of cold winter
________________

The hollowness of Suave Swan sorrow—
did they think it could possibly last forever?
_____________

Were they no different than the ex-cons—
deluding themselves like poor Perry Smith?

Were they any less rapacious than Killer—
Dick Hickcock haunting Holcomb Kansas? 
__________________

Like some innocent blond child there—
on the bank admiring the graceful swans

Capote could see no difference between—
Fifth Avenue elite and ex-con hoodlums
___________

Cruising the brilliant ice-cold waters—
the suave sophisticated Society Swans

Emblems of spoiled evil Black Swans—
marveling at their own bliss & sleek suavity
____________

LA CÔTE BASQUE shattering illusions—
that whole Jet Set jettisoned adieu 

Is that what happens when a writer—
gets disillusioned with things?