"Poem"

 

In which telling details of the poet's biography

have been inveigled from him by the subtle arts

of his intended lesbian novelist, to whom this

 

Preface:

 

I seek in this to proffer some response

to that droll tale wherein you deigned reveal

a treatment by gay therapist who wants

to cure some dying fellow gay, and heal

 

(of too obsessive mourning lover dead)

with man-man love affair the doomed bereaved -

one Jack - dispelling doubts that swarm his head

'til he of fear of joy's death's quite relieved -

 

him show that, though desire's partner's gone

from lust perverted or so-called off-course,

delight that's weird (or only strange) goes on,

keeps gayness (like philandering), antrorse.

 

I fun's director was for childhood's day.

Suburban grove a block from home would roar;

I had the say what games we guys would play -

what shouts of cowboys, cops and robbers, war -

 

But when at home I'd raid the cookie jar

and steal the sugar from the sugar-cup,

and lie to Dad about who scratched the car,

and sometimes I would beat my brothers up -

 

then other boys - then, once, my own best friend

because he stole the ten-year-old Annette,

(though she became a hooker in the end).

Of empathy I had no clue as yet.

 

When I was nine, my father'd had enough;

he caught me in a lie all unawares

about a theft I'd blamed on bro'. Dad's cuff

propelled me gently down the basement stairs!

 

And yet, when dear Annette, that afternoon,

was being teased by big kid, Randy, twelve,

I chased him off with clothesline pole, (though soon

he trashed, with friend, a dugout I did delve).

 

 

My father lost his job, and so we moved;

downtown Detroit my swift comeuppance brought

at hands of black gamin. Me it behooved

him quarters give, whatever shame it wrought.

 

My brothers marveled at the change in me:

My science emphasis transformed to art,

my painting past-time full-time poetry -

henceforth this ancient madness fueled my heart.

 

So epic lusts of suburb childhood

gave way, through auspices of Beatnick verse,

to pacifistic joys of garret 'hood.

Its violence appeared my private curse.

 

For neither dreams nor fate could I well slough;

nor - student, clerk - my workouts. Too content,

I seven years let come and go - enough

of research rapt in cities violent.

 

Beyond some childish game of doctor, all

males' falling for, or off'ring me gay sex

I've left bemocked, or spurned. Yet I recall

that, really, my love-life some flaws reflects.

 

From tour at bitter arctic Air Force base

through tropic voyage as Merchant daft Marine,

I've visions fled of beauty's fickle face

in onanistic fantasies obscene.

 

Then, later, as a ghetto student worker,

I'd go stand-offish after one-night-stands;

except for flings with hookers I was shirker

of love's commitment. Health clubs filled my plans.

 

Their sprightly spandex visions are a budge

from bigotry, how-ere eventual -

let them no ill of all my yearnings judge -

nor me of human joys consensual.

 

And yet I feel no ecstasy consoles

like doing it with lissome lithe sylph-peri -

however much the memory cajoles

of times confusing, sexually, very.

 

First there was Sarge, forced me to drop my pants

right in the Ord'ly Room yelled they weren't clean.

And, even worse, because he had the chance,

he made me call myself, to all who'd seen,

a dirty, filthy pig. He was a Drill

Instructor, I a new recruit. But yet,

I've won since then. I think of one night still:

a revolutionary sweet nymphet

 

saw fit to share the rapture of her bed -

for, on the bus to see Marie that night,

I'd gotten in an argument that led

somehow into a modest, brief street-fight

 

which I came, out of character, on top.

The net effect of all of the above:

mere shame to hope can never put a stop

for courage comes, and pride's restored, through love.

 

I might go on - was once karate-chopped,

once kicked - and from behind/in front -

by dirty back-room cop whose friend had stopped

my breath with night-stick choke-hold, (pigs to hunt);

 

again, on ghetto street by brother black -

or rotter loathed with ire of one who fights

not well, but clean... allergic to shallac...

respectively. Yet also there've been nights....

 

I once was sought by - hadn't even goosed -

Policeman's daughter - studied poly-sci.,

another time successfully seduced

its black girl-graduate, though I'm but I.

 

If wonderment - unwitting - recollects

how by humiliation I've been stomped,

my memory, unfalt'ring, thinks of sex -

selecting scenes where bliss with me has romped.

 

I won't dismay the tender reader more

with tedious exampling bygone flaws

of character, or morals, though galore

they've blotted my escutcheon - shall not pause

 

to mention being half-fellated once

by sexy little mini-dressed young girl,

exploring whom my hand pronounced me dunce -

for she was he, a mad transvestite churl;

 

Nor blush to limn my strip-search long ago

by cretin pigs who sport the stinking badge -

for something sweeter than revenge I know

can cancel grief: a night with Joy or Madge!

 

For deeply intimate I've often been

with paragons of female pulchritude -

with marathoners, dancers built for men

resolved to keep wild minxes staunchly lewd.

 

If fortune has, to feed my tender passion,

bestowed delghts so little mixed with pain

as just to make them tang in piquant fashion,

she couldn't my ignoble heart refrain

 

from lifting, nerves from stealing, nor my will

that cowered terrified in ghetto tough

from strengthening - to face what scuds there still:

mad doper muggers, who must get enough.

 

III

 

A while ago, as I, a callow lad

read Sophocles upon a Summer bus,

beside me sat a city girl - egad,

I can't delate her charms unless I cuss.

 

"You're not the only one who's tickled by

Greek tragedy," she said. Of gods May talked,

and which sex loves sex most. She said not why,

but me seduced as her I home then walked.

 

How her my arm and me her voice enwrapped

as through the town we'd wander - who knows where? -

until we seemed in someone's garden trapped -

a whispered "Get-em!" heard, and there

 

bore down on us a snarling St.-Bernard.

I shouted, "Run!" and waited - tick, tick, tick -

then flew another way. He followed hard

and caught my pants-cuff - just as, leaping quick

 

I flew from street retaining wall to land

on sidewalk, saw May soon then to me come.

She called me "hero," took my clammy hand,

knew not she led a coward limping home.

 

IV

 

Long after I to Motown Beatnick, then

to Oaktown Hippie'd been transported, -formed,

I stayed with flower-girl in commune, when

our house-mates split, as in the hard drugs stormed.

There then arrived, with friends, a street-cat brash

to call me out to fight - I slammed the door;

yet not to pick his gauntlet up proved rash

when lost thereby were self, my Rose, amour.

 

I fought back, though, 'gainst new apartment-mate -

my girl had left Mo-Ped in common hall.

I lost, but did her like to love translate,

his disrespect to friendship, at my fall.

 

You see, should I but thusly sift the tale

of all my tempering in honor's flame,

to ev'ry time I've felt my courage fail,

I match a time when I've transcended shame.

 

V

 

 

When hard drugs drove the gentle hippie out

of cities in the '70s, and speed-

freak, smack-head gangsters with this rout

prepared the urban stage for yuppie greed,

 

I met an Irish sprite, sweet Meg, chanteuse,

divorce attorney's wife. She would confess

that they for jealousy had little use -

allowed their marriage favored openness.

 

I straightened out my clothes in my back seat,

where Meg and I in steamy sex had lain -

my day of job, run, college, love complete -

two hoods my locked car rocked on Lover's lane.

 

But - was I braver when, a few months on,

I made a friend of roomie-minx's squeeze,

for LSATs help him study - 'til he yawn,

and coax me out to skate in down-hill breeze?

 

Why'd Doc's guitarist son relax, expose

poor poet-wight to such hilarity?

An L.A. lawyer friend of mine best knows

how tunes lend words their somesthetic glee.

 

VI

 

I once surprised a small nude gay girl elf

with other sweet bare nymph in Saphic bliss

when neither minx could quite content herself -

both, writhing on my bed, did me quite miss -

 

'til little Laura saw me standing there.

She yelled, "Get out!" I called them "Nasty broads,"

and left. When Susie split - L.A., somewhere -

my Laura went straight, swinging - Queen of bawds -

 

with smooth seductive blandishments enticed

old horny me her roommate now to be;

as soon as she moved in, my fires she iced;

her first of many boyfriends 'gan to see.

 

Though I in her sublime enchantment's spell

valet or mentor played - 'tween us no tryst

would that sweet devil tease in her think well

for angel, dancer, singer, pianist.

 

Her old retainer, though, gave her a shock

when I arranged some courage up to hike,

and, with her boyfriend, Jerry, 'gainst her mock,

to Fresno road on's Kawasaki bike.

 

But how it comes that he of valiant glee'd

thus deign to proffer star-crossed scholar pale

such boon as rides upon his steel steed,

the mind that strives alone to know must fail.

 

VII

 

Two wars ago I thought I might be big;

in solidarity with gangling guys

I'd seen through riots slouch, I hit a pig -

if you can't fight, this may not prove too wise.

 

In jail, my first week there, a bunch of dudes

gang-raped a young grass dealer late one night -

who, next day, called the guards - and me includes

as one of his attackers! So then, right

 

into the compound rolls the paddywagon.

When I therein with five perverts-accused

had sat a half an hour, my spirits flaggin',

the victim changed his mind. I was excused.

 

Could I my fellow inmates' taunts survive?

One turned me on to pumping iron; he,

a genie black, desired I stay alive -

who wonder why, still pumping irony.

 

 

VIII

 

In far the most humiliating scene

I've e'er endured, the real Living End,

young Laura, roomie, tutee, cutie - mean -

her then main squeeze, my guts-mad biker friend,

 

and I our way we wended toward the tall

encrusted town. We escalating up

from subway, toward Three Stooges festival,

Chicano cat who'd one too many cup

 

accosted me and wouldn't let me pass.

I sidestepped, ran five paces, turned -

around 'n', like a fool, I called him "ass,"

but learned with what attacking rage he burned.

 

As soon as I began exchanging blows

with him, my motorcycle pal emerged,

who jumped him; from the crowd there then arose

a further swarthy brawler. When I urged

 

my friend to let me have my fights, the new

hidalgo went at him. As their fists rained

this Juan, Ill call him, (though I never knew),

resumed his work to keep me entertained.

 

As student, swimmer, skater, clerk may fight

I stood and fought him even, as he me.

'Twas several minutes gone into the night

until I knew I'd not the winner be.

 

I made a bleak half-hearted lurch to flee,

he turned our battle into running one....

He tired. Again the odds weighed evenly.

Somewhere distant Jerry shared such fun,

 

while somewhere nearby Laura sweetly wept.

A quizzical surprise lit my foe's grin -

it seemed as though I'd actually kept...

my end up. Then the blame Police stepped in,

 

attacking, as pigs will, in out-sized odds

while charging us, as pigs will, from behind.

One grabbed my belt. I cursed his porcine gods,

his chains, his bars, his heart so young gone blind.

 

They sorted us by seeming sides, then bade

us sit on low concrete retaining-wall.

They checked ID's, bestowed no accolade

to ask me whence I hailed, me winner call.

 

But balmy Jerry said, "Stop crying, Laura."

I, hearing, said, "Stop crying, Laura" too;

but n'er were saying when she donned her aura,

(nor pressing charges), something we could do.

 

Except for Juan, the pigs let us all go.

except the hombre I'd been flailing at.

He wore no guns, no cages, kept, and - oh -

he fought me clean, alone, up front - no rat.

 

But since he had a "prior" he got hauled

away, and all because of me! But she,

that biker's imp, said I should not be called

a wimp, though, any more - and frowned at me,

 

a Kleenex patting gently on my brow.

Then Jer', his lover Laura, I resumed

our way. She led, a goddess from the prow

of some old ship, I trailing soul-entombed.

 

Experiences such as these I've had

have brought more doughty spirits to their knees,

have driven much more stable men quite mad -

then how did I pick up a few degrees?

 

Or how could one confront, if any, fear -

unless desire his inspiration fed -

unless, in dreams, some woman were a-near -

or lest, awake, enchanted him in bed?

 

 

Coda

 

Upon a great Afghan of plaid

each Rod or Dick or Randy lad

doth love to picnic in blue grass

with Sapphire, Ruby, Em'rald lass,

 

to read 'em many a strange stave

that may from a ream o' mad rhyme rave

All on a green morning - to see

The flaring of the flames of glee

 

that dance in their peculiar eyes

beneath the trees of plum.