Red
Not that I want you to fail, fall down red
in the face, but if you think erotic
exotic and shovel where sun is guilt
I mean quilt I mean guild good grief
I don’t know what I mean go
fuck yourself, object of my affectation
like I’m supposed to be an infection
you mean this big pus filled pocket red
inflammation, touch it and you will go
to hell, and all those saints, erotic
pleasure with god, please, it grieves
me to step in this pile of dog guilt
bed-ridden and impounded, the gilded
cage, I mean real gold wedding affection
cake and flowers, rings and debt, the grief
divorce with children, pseudo-science I’ve read
all about it in Why We Love the neurotic
fixation on orgasmic object, let it go
without you all I need is coffee to go
without you I’ve shed ten pounds of guilt
without you there is no end to erotic
options in everyone I meet, affection
in strangers blood and thickness, the red
herring, the lobster, the newsprint of grief
Monty Python in search of the holy grail
let’s get real, out of your pajamas, get
to work, day is wanting, have you even read
the news, pick up your messages, guilt
of procrastination, tool of your affection
used, perfected. Confessional erodes
earth’s paradise, right here, not neurotic
sinful damnation or holy roller grief
spewed by pedestals of affection
blinders affixed to bodies with one goal
screw you screw me screw the world of guilt
censors, archbishops, cardinals in red
embarrassed red platoon, faced, my erotic
double, deleted, no guilt blame, no grief
skip purgatory, go directly to fiery hell.
Lou Reed
While listening to Lou Reed –
walk on the wild side amplify
if I’m guitar I fret the neck –
slide by Krome Avenue croon
detention center cronies, synthesize
shorts down around my knees, whisper
secret handshake boys sign language, whisper
hey babe, and the coloured girls go Reed
yes Lou his flip side sixteen on the charts, size
him up, incisor pinky ring. He’s fly
Spanish fly no fly by, Mickey Rooney
his side kick at break neck
speed try one of these. Hickeys & neck-
laces – don’t yell at me – whisper
my name your nameless spoon, croon
or not, forget my birthday not, read
this prick, you never once remembered, amplified –
I’m not sorry – you were good for me, just my size
dipped after hours in ionic solution, synthesized
with attitude, ballerina’s stretched neck
her wings wrapped tight, unamplified
acoustic & loud enough to whisper
her name Patti Page by golly Donna Reed
are you crazy? Jimmy Page, Led Zep croons
stairway to heaven, white rabbit croons
whole-lot-of-loving, not my size
chicks can’t stand that line, greedy
sons of bitches, you need my neck
of the woods, inlaid with pearl, whisper
his name my name, our fly your fly
like family stone and sly
how chrome shines, anachronistic crooner
I scream kick shout, until hoarse whispers
in sympathetic silk, and Barbie doll-sized
bras burn in their hipless bosom. Long-necked
pose, poser, test tube baby, read
the manual you pencil neck, blue macaroon
under-amplified oboe reeds, soaked in whisper’s
static charge, synthetic’s sweat.
Bullet Hole
Who put the bullet hole in Peggy’s kitchen wall, sing
while Cochburn plays. She performs
unspeakable acts – listens
to the soundtrack, saxophone horns
erase the blackboard
an attempt to measure
separation – when she cooks she doesn’t measure
unless it’s a birthday cake. Pressure cooker sings
nearly explodes, not boring –
she’s still jonesing to perform
Red for her class. If a teacher grows horns
is that a proper image, will they listen
to anything she says, who listens
anyway? We sleepwalk in measured
unconscious, ask Jung or Sigmund, silent horn
of plenty’s happenstance. She sings
take me out to the ball game child performer
ecstatic, up late, no one bored
or telling her what not to do, she belts it out, board
for floor, tongue for groove, listen –
who’s the boss, if one deforms
her enthusiasm, the town crier, cry baby cry, sure
she knows better – the duke is having problems, sings
for his supper, bankrupt, busted, shorn
of dignity. She dialed her ex-, by mistake, on or off the horn
what’s worse, calling or not recognizing his voice, dumb broad
she hung up. Memory shouts
Why do I keep fucking up, listen
to Neil Young, put a band-aid on it, measure
a pint of blood, make your face, black suit performance
remember when you chose ma he’s making eyes at me performed
for party favors, before Lucifer grew horns
before urine, blood and hair were measured
in drug screens and wrecking balls wreaked havoc on the board-
walk, before phone taps and spyware listened
to our patterns of prediction, when you sang
before the board, sang for quarters from heaven,
the horn player on Addison performed just for you
after the Cubs vs. Giants win, measure of wind, listen.
Smoking
In college we all smoked cigarettes
Marlboros. My Biloxi roommate, I modeled
her slinky dress – remember the crazy way Joe painted
his room, brown, blue and green, instrumental
in our fucking, he could be kooky or rigid—
in the picture I look sexy, the dress was black
I sent a copy to Evan the law student. He wrote back
didn’t tell me he was engaged, he smoked a lot of cigarettes
while I typed his law school briefs and abstracts, religiously
helpful. To fuck him, he smuggled
me into his dorm, lord make me an instrument
of thy piece of ass, too bad I don’t believe, lies and paint
a pot of stain grass windbags and if I can paint
my toes and be off color finger puppet black
sand nude I can wear these pin-striped instruments
of celebratory cigars.
Hey, the postman delivered your model
aquarium, fly fish, angel fish, crash wing mountain ridge
like Patsy Cline, I Fall to Pieces don’t you love Oak Ridge
Boys, remember when the phones were down, not paint
not plastic, and we’d yell from Hickory Hill to Sassafras, yodel
yark, blow the conch, Black-
berry Hill to First Road Meadow, no one smoked cigarettes
only pot, out to save the world, instruments
of …what is this death thing, self-fulfilling instrument
my brother played guitar at Delores’ funeral, her rigid
burial, how stiff the dead become, pumped full, she never smoked
they sewed her lips together, she didn’t look peaceful, painted
persona, make-up artist, funeral director, black
limousine, how my favorite Uncle John cried. Better than a model-T
those old Ramblers, the seats went down, models
of sanctity we made out, it was snowing, instrumental
strings on the car stereo, windows steamed, back
seat flat, fuck, I need a bed to dream, the big dick, locked, rigid
in the mud under the bumper, fumbling for the hidden key, paint
me, this happens once a week, post-coital cigarette
no, I gave them up, no cigar, a model
of righteous dig nation, instrument of repentance
I quit college, quit smoking, no black hole, no big dick.
Boom chaka laka boom
Boom chaka – Angas stomp his skirts
match, basketcase, masked with red-
hots, rosary peas, like you, poison.
Bite down on the fringe
or the raffia grass, not the abrus beads
unless your dance is a brush
with death. Chaka laka – barefoot brush
shamanic broom trance, skirt
the truth and the abrus bead
precatorius seed, the red
flash on your vision fringe
stirs & swirls, witch doctor, not poison—
medicine man, truth serum, drop dead poison
you owe me nothing in return—brush
fire, living under laka boom fringe
like fleas under the bedspread skirt
only your blood, not red
when it dries, but brown beads
on a sliding scale, boom chaka bead
money, seed money, fallen angel by Poison
Lucinda knows or red
dirt girl, Emmylou’s wrecking ball, brush
off the dust, lift her skirt
country music twang fringe
like Dwight or Lyle on the film fringe
mask, rawhide, beaded
shirt, men in chaka laka skirts
snakebite venom, immune, poison
in small doses, brushed
on the tips of darts, red
hot poker, paint & butterfly garden red—
enough seeds to cover the body— ringed
in fire, Chaka Khan, eyelash bosom brush
abacus, need scarification to germinate seeds
when inhaled or injected most toxic
tuck payment in the shaman’s vest
red laka laka fringe chaka
poison broom laka boom
beaded fancy pants divested shirt.