Caravaggios not yet hung,
but leaning against aubergine walls
sexy John the Baptist prettily chiseled though
mad clutching a staff in his moody moonlight
Judith equally alluring as
she plies the sword of her oppressor--
her nipples hard as a crone
stands nearby, taking it all in.
Mary weary as all mothers
and Dionysus green, hungover again
Salome grips her plate having
what she wanted for dinner.
then there are many pretty pouty boys
strumming their lutes and lyres, playing cards.
In real life, Caravaggio boys are a pain--
one complains of my minor tummy bulge,
that youth with adorable love handles!
Caravaggio boys want to
have sex all night, when I’m
worn out, dry-mouthed, grouchy,
then, there was the last one
who left me for San Francisco
left me to long for
Caravaggios reclining all around.
Today it is
It is story of content,
the part of the stream
is good being
just the part
of this stream
You saw in
it does, but
of doing simply
will be either.
as for content
of the stream which
As for this,
so it is defined,
"Caravaggio Boys" appeared in the Chiron Review
"Transmission Person" appeared in Shampoo
"My LIfe in Opera" appeared in Cliterature
"verbal reinforcement" appeared in Vulcan
My Life in Opera
My life in opera began with a coming out
party, sick of boring, frumpy friends
we invited beautiful strangers, like Benita Valente’s son
whose note read “please call me”
years later in the Pyramid Club
he was there, a photography student at NYU.
For a time, I was an east village fag hag prima donna assuluta, with a boy claque that went wild, when I got them in for free and complementary drinks at Boy Bar, but
I favored stinky sweaty dives on Avenue A.
I adore Offenbach, Puccini and Wagner.
I admire Catherine Clement’s Opera, or the Undoing of Women; I recommend The Queen’s Throat: Opera, Homosexuality and the Mystery of Desire.
It was better when people went to the opera to gossip, do drugs and get laid. I was tired of working for Captain Bringdown, I felt like the fliengende holländer
doomed to sailing that boat forever
funny, I am Dutch on my mother’s side.
Young, sandy-headed Rodolfo gripped my hand before the first act, in a panic about his arias to come,
his hair was flippy and reminded me of the boys I liked
in high school, thoughtful, earnest, maybe woosie, maybe not. Pharmaceuticals got him through it, Rodolfo and I hugged and hugged again.
Come with me he whispered, but it was spring. I grabbed all
the black lilies, ran and jumped off the loading dock.
Chi son? Who am I?
I’m a poet.
How do I live?
I live in Frida’s blue house and red lips
I live in Caravaggio’s drama queen moment
I live in Muerto’s beauty
I live in Rufus’ blessed songs
I live among curls of Lady Bunny’s wig
I live in nostalgia of Loisada, in Mannahatta
among the multitude
I live in Marilyn’s whisper
my mother’s pain
my numinous children
my hairy ass and arms
my beloved’s bicuspids
my hope for us all.
Chi son? Who am I?
I’m a poet.
How do I live? I live. Viva la vida!
when you say Derrida
"a"s and "r"s.
your vibrating "d"
da da da
s'il vous plait
oh I want
to slip through the "o"
into your mouth
da da da.