Poetry / Uncategorized

Diable en Boîte – Poem

          for WSW Pride 2013

Erratic crank, rusted

and catchy dangles the

apartment as a flash mob

of memory: the foyer –

the fact that there was

a fucking foyer.  Spice

cupcakes, passed

out episodes, you drooling

on the kitchen floor

at 2am or 3am and the

clanging of the Grandfather

clock, a punishment

sudden and fierce

with an aftertaste like

sheepsmilk cheese.

Now, 30 years later

rumors of Polk Street

and haberdashery.

The apartment would

sparkle, your wife would

never need.  An unnamed

agreement greening

the trees with potpourri.

Pockets full, my friend

please the pretender.

Men will always want

men more than

women will always want

men.  The dead are sifted

into the lives of their

carriers, half parasite,

half promise.  In the revolution

of the toy’s side arm

my prayer seems a primer

for all the layers of faulty

instruction.  Hide that love

had no time for you, has

no time for your children’s

children.  Climb aboard the

yacht, stall ten.  In the revolution

of academics and leather

wearing queens, you would

have, could have thundered

out of the corners you

clutched, giddy in the

arms of a man if you

wanted him.  But keeping

the clown in his metallic

home defeats the purpose.

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