ABOUT

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

cory is a faggot

anonymity confers a certain daring
on secret undertakers of the spirit
who smile offering pleasantries

at the candy machine hearty messengers
w/breath of formaldahyde
& guile acquired on vacations

to prepackaged gambling dens, all this
betrayed
in the way they chew:

you may encounter their truest feelings
on the walls of 6th floor lavatory stalls
where they scrawl

the carnal equivalent of nose pickings:
what they write is (technically speaking)
correct tho it's not exactly

clever nor interesting nor even
News to most
so...forgive them

forgive their want
of couth mirth style insight or
decency   they exist

as bundles of thwarted instinct
combined w/infinities of dimly remembered soul mishaps
reduced to cell-clusters

afloat in the ether
of what a certain Swiss physician dubbed "the unconscious":
bowing & gloved

satin-tongued, w/their eyes
full of scalpels
they go on living in underworld gameshow imaginations

of what they can't have
or don't have
or won't have

& who cares?



37 x 1

I do not think this poem will reach its destination.
                      —Voltaire, on Rousseau's "Ode to Posterity"


In most places, getting to know people opens doors. In Philadelphia, it closes them.

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Isn't it funny when you see people who years ago used to be good-looking and they aren't anymore and right away you think: have I lost it?

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The surest sign of approaching middle age in gay men is a sudden, frantic passion for acquiring antiques.

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This relationship is going nowhere. We ought to end it now. And don't worry. It's not about me, it's about you.

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"Wuddayoomean I have an attitude problem? FUCK YOU!!!"

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It lasted about 10 weeks. By the time Steve was thru, the mansion of John's ego had been reduced to a treehouse.

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On the subject of resolutions: I will no longer sleep with people merely because they're willing.

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Let's face it: in many cases, sympathy is just another form of lust.

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People used to be so much more interesting when it wasn't important to be "interesting."

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Poor Sandra. She was a size 10 woman in a size 6 town.

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Why not, teal with envy?

                                                         *

His beauty went from luxury to commodity in the space of an orgasm.

                                                         *

I'm ready for a full body massage. And I mean inside and out!

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As is often the case, he wasn't interested in poetry so much as he was interested in his poetry.

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Uncle Murray, 94: "Man my age is got no business livin'."

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Do I contradict myself? Very well, I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multiple personalities.

                                                         *

Jungian conundrum: Why is it the excessively selfish never self-actualize?

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All his relationships were essentially with himself.

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Sooner or later we all find ourselves standing at the intersection of Vanity and Ignorance.

                                                         *

There is something tragic about self-importance. Tragic & unutterably boring.

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Depression: it's all in your head, anyway.

                                                         *

Being in a relationship with Charles was like being on probation for a crime I had yet to commit.

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Grandma seems to enjoy things much more when she can't have them.

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Yes, I lied to my therapist. As if it was any of his goddamn business anyway!

                                                         *

America is a country full of soulless people seeking soulmates.

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Every now & then, bored, I storm into the bedroom impersonating a rabid hyena about to rip the cats to pieces & scatter their bodies into the dust. Either they ignore me completely or look up, stretch & yawn.

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We had our picnic up the lazy river of American poetry, where spliced prose sandwiches were served.

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Poor Walter lost his dentures pearl-diving in the fountain of youth.

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I hate it when I go to dinner parties & people remind me of myself at the callow age of, say, 40.

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A good day is when time and prosperity are not different.

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I have a chip on my shoulder the size of womyn's music festival.

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It got to the point with him where there was just more straw than camel.

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It's warm out and my very THOUGHTS today are clothing optional.

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The unconscious has a mind of its own.

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And then there were the gay identical twins she knew who happened to be lovers. Moral of the story: go fuck yourself.

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All my life I've been terrified of fucking up. As if an honest mistake weren't just that.

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Thanks for having me. So to speak. when to quit.