Caravaggio BoysCaravaggios 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 soft-bodied, sweet-nippled 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. Transmission Person Today it is Sugawara. It is story of content, the part of the stream with it is compressed Because, is good being just the part of this stream thawing content. You saw in to be, it does, but of doing simply probably will be either. Thawing is not possible; It is according to as for content of the stream which becomes the filter. As for this, so it is defined, so is. "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 OperaMy 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 Ginsberg’s sphincter 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! verbal reinforcement when you say Derrida I'm aroused by extended "a"s and "r"s. your vibrating "d" da da da s'il vous plait say again Foucault oh oh oh I want to slip through the "o" of Foucault into your mouth da da da. |