In the Beginning

 

I am sorry. I am sorry. But I am gone.
—Laura Jensen

There was a man.
Who spun saccharine
turns of phrase,
burns on the lips.
A lapse in judgment
occurred, he half
inferred. Never meant.

Who peeled ailments
off pill bottles
on a shelf,
swallowed
more than allowed,
to show safety.
Because it was safe,

he slaked his thirst
with ache—but not
at first. The cause,
a stiff knot. He gifted
a scarf with strings—
Whatever you say,
he sings—and some new

little boots.
Like Caligula (1979)—
stiff upper art;
Penthouse Pets—
he gets it both ways.
Monstrous and hurt,
another Robert Lowell.

A man is the owl
on the clock
in the corner.
A man of the house
for sale by owner.
In other words,
lay down

your flesh cards.
A man is clues,
broken news.
In the beginning,
a man is sewage.
And the beginning
is always.

 

Containment

 

November 2018

This is an attempt
to contain a wildfire.
Mistakes will be repeated:
Look elsewhere for measure.

To contain a wildfire,
against myth,
look elsewhere. For measure,
remains are a number

against myth:
counts of manslaughter.
Remains are a number
set forth by Pacific Gas & Electric.

Counts of manslaughter,
aka, Camp Fire.
Set forth by Pacific Gas & Electric
a liability,

aka, Camp Fire.
It isn’t easy to see
a liability.
Ash falls upon us all.

It isn’t easy to see.
This is an attempt.
Ash falls upon us: All
mistakes will be repeated.

 

The Scene

 

1.

I weigh in
like a boxer.
I prompt.
A split lip
of simile;
a formality.

Then say
done and done,
post-money—
redundancy
the poverty,
the tea

closer
to role play.
Disparity,
what pulls
away:
American

money!
So green
and dull—
but as we all
know,
dullness wins,

eventually.
One nation
of hydration,
bluffs,
and rotator
cuffs…

2.

Later,
my slightly
younger
neighbor
will come
over,

in character
and shorts.
He calls me
Coach—
the scene—
reveals a patch

of itch
under his jock.
I’m no fool.
Ketoconazole,
we’ll never
break.

A performance
where every
nobody wins,
mild-
to-regret
my statuette.

It isn’t even
all that fun.
(Fun ends
when
you let
them in.)

3.

Men like us
are forever
grieving.
Loss
isn’t loss,
it’s a limited series:

episode one,
sequins;
two,
a bruise;
number you
know the rest.

Garishly shot,
like never.
I have
a small
window.
It’s not bird

time yet, but
it is bird weather.
My wingspan
cuddlesome
(gross).
And my own

special
motiveless
malignity. Dignity,
I’m here
for fun
and friends.

4.

Near beer,
tight ends.
Night bends.
I know
it’s late
for a love game.

Which isn’t
sadness,
or freedom,
it’s a feeling
that precedes
feeling, a narcotic

urge of mythic
injury.
I’m a coach
without advice.
The balm?
Go on.

 

Poem Beginning with a Line by Wayne Koestenbaum

 

Airports are gay bars in denial.
Look at how I saunter in:
gripping my name-brand totes
(behind the security rope,
the handsy agent);

proving I am myself.
The slow walk, where somebodies see me.
The sidling up to the bar to kill time.
The obsession: uniforms.
The repetition of the word terminal.

The repetition of the word terminal—
the obsession. Uniforms
sidling up to the bar to kill, Time
the slow walk where some bodies see me
proving I am, myself.

The handsy agent
behind the security rope:
gripping. My name brand? Totes
look at how I saunter in…
Airports are gay. Bars, in denial.