My Head Hurts!


“I’ve always been more interested in the connotation than the denotation…My sphincter squirmed. My pharynx quivered. I wanted to fart and burp at the same time” … sensuality tenderness love are not the borrowed salient features of sexual exuberance – pace, bleeding letters, frozen object … “I stepped out into the light and realized I was nude … hot, sweaty, scared, terrified, wet, defiant, angry, desolate, hopeful … I do have control over my life at this point.”


“The old man wasn’t really old … They were at a bar … Humiliation was his triumph … Clarity was usurped by absolute stupor … But the boy didn’t say anything … The street was empty … he felt a great sense of relief” … I know the dust of myself (abject center – penetrate – history – totem) … “It was off to the side a touch … like a child … All he knew was that the recognizable had finally and permanently disappeared.”

Another Round

“This situation doen’t require a good, hard look to recognize or name for every moment far from being blurred is clear because it’s a redundancy” … gold routs body corps tomb vein solidarity red lice fetus insane old warrior necessary cruelty … “Draft … Good morning … Thanks …. I really enjoyed myself … I’m not interested … These eggs taste great … Do you often go to … I can’t remember your name … You’re so cute … You’re not interested in cruelty, that’s not your intention, but the planting of suspicion has become a reflexive act reminding you that these answers are in fact meaningless.”

Slap Happy

“There was nothing exceptional about the toy outside of its complete lack of defining features … Two boys crouched attentively over the toy … All in the name of science … Does it hurt? No it feels weird … Hello? … Don’t come in here … Is everything alright in there … Son, what happened … David, what happened … Joe played football and fucked girls … David had less luck sexually” … Continuity replaces bone torn jagged rested we move again into the flame afraid of showing the bone … “Harder and harder he slapped … he bit his lip … He wasn’t thinking of a man. He was thinking of his mother.”

Stops and Starts

“The moon is a secondary source of light … Dreams surface … Ideas and desires corporealize … He was looking for love” … cut out the tongue canal shit death absent void syringe affirmation … “He was getting older … the two became interconnected … Surprise one … Surprise two … Surprise three … Bears where ideal … This skin was ephraim … A voice said, harder … Without further ado … The other sits up with a start.”

Gender Studies

“In the playground there’s a specific section where the older girls play … Feminine opportunity … How he loved to swing … His face was ambiguous” … joy death we know well enough multiplication upsets requests untie madness indeed transposition all … “Territories were staked … At least the stench was honest … Outside … Doors closed … the situation was out of hand … The outside came as a present.”


“I was at a bathhouse … We were jazz … I put a towel at the crack of the door … Even the blue of it, licked at me” … ontology justified death by language death in a box idea of body negation … “I went to the West … The height gave new perspective … It was silence itself … Up, up, up … Inside a gigantic globe … I saw blackness … Fat ephraim of earth … My perspective went awry … But it never came.”

Drunk Culture

“The conversation was ebullient, intoxicating, three men were laughing in the best of spirits … He was trying to get away … he chose to attack the crowd” … Degradation condemnation erotism corporal rites black life absent plane constructed suffocation … “Eventually the cock did slide … He disengaged … He struggled toward unconsciousness … But those two were already asleep, and having the most unpleasant dreams.”

Gertrude Stein is Dead

“There is only one end in life and an end is by its very nature abrupt, short, curt, final … Or life perhaps … Am I a participant … You’re there. I’m here. It’s over. You’re done” … blue face long blue dress decorated with monkeys and fruit She enters when the curtain has risen but from the moment that the curtain begins to rise she attempts to dominate the sound of the orchestra … “We don’t need more … Everyone will sense it … I’m there. I’m here. It’s over. I’m done … Same, the same. Same. Same. Same.”


Because you will never know the answer until after we are done. Is your faith really that strong? I understand the need to move on. It is something that happens too us all. And if your time has truly come. I also understand that with the beauty of this love there comes pain and despair. no one is immune! But consider what you have in your hands. Before you give it up. Don’t trade a treasure for an empty box.

“When you stop contributing to life. You become a burden, it’s time to move on.”

Love, it warps our senses, twists our souls. It can take us past hope, past care, past help. I know about love, its suffering, its anguish, its pain. Heaven means to kill our joy with love. And yet we must have it at any cost. But are you so enamored that you will over look your love for me. You do love me, I’ve seen you smile into my eyes like stars in the night. Are you willing to sacrifice our love for another? Look into your heart, and tell me you are willing to make that choice?

Haven’t you tired of the incessant quilt. Hasn’t it swayed your back, and stooped your shoulders to the point of throwing them off. You insist on taking responsibility for the actions and emotions of those around you. When they alone are truly responsible. It is so foolish so unnecessary, it’s so weak. And it must stop. This and all else that has happened, should make that clear to you.

For all the things that we are; there is a price to be paid. Love may be tasted never savored. In our darkest moments we may end our relationship, we should never aspire to it. Quit is a poison and staying past our time is death. But it need not be! If we truly care for another, truly love another, then we must go. That’s something another taught me. Leaving is the purest form of love.

“How can such a cold still heart feel such pain?”

Have you thought this through? Our love lies at the brink, its fate is in your hands. Bring it closer or let it die. You must decide?

“Is it possible for a soul to love faithfully?”

Be done with him. Time heals all. We must move on! You can not deny what you are. And I can not condemn you for that.



Rain, snow, ice storms, peaceful sunny days. I was riveted to life, a beggar cruising the endless alley. Oblivious, stupid, proud, supernatural, calm, who needed friends or lovers? O my rapturous childhood, I was right to hate what I hated. Listen: in Hell we don’t give the dying a penny, but we’re civil. We see the world correctly. We’re not salesmen. Nothing hurts us, not even the surly, confident ones, the false elect,who humiliate us, refuse to bless us. Southern swamps, you’ve sponged up all the light. My soul won’t stop grieving. I’d have to strangle myself to end these bleak hymns honestly. When I confronted the King of Hell, I said; Fuck martyrdom, fuck the sublime glow of art, the seriousness of inventors, the passion of business men and thieves. The East is a dream of never waking up. I wasn’t pondering my escape from contemporary anguish. I wasn’t exploring the spooky bible. Ever since Science took over, Man hides from himself. We cultivate fog, eat fever with our watery carrots and broccoli, get drunk,smile, sacrifice ourselves. Infinitely distant from the root, we exterminate ourselves with our own poisons. Rabbis and priests, this is not Eden. Time doesn’t exist. the world has no age. Formulate your own East, older than the stars. Don’t give in. You’re free to live beyond suicidal schemes of salvation. Science is much too slow for men like us. Cherished citizens, wake up. Your souls are asleep. You’re still addicted to the human. Truth’s everywhere, as close as our own hands. Weeping angels hover close to us. Soul, soul, this pure, radiant instant-sinister turning of ten windmills by the edge of some bare field in a black and hungry year-crucifies us.


Each of us is doomed to live many lives. Each of us will be crushed on the anvil of terror, reborn by awe. Action isn’t life, it spoils God’s power, it drains the last prayers from our throats. the soul’s theatre is invisible-sight, hearing, taste, smell, sense without organs. Listen: each of us lives many lives-plumber, angels, athletes, electricians, gods. Once I was a pig. I champion all laws of madness. I lived them all, I know the system. Terror gnaws my mind. the same dream drags me back into it, destroys the real world, calls me to inhabit it permanently. I’m ready to die, ready to be wind, darkness, ghosts. It’s as if God’s final curse is a live coal broiling my mouth. Islands and crystal blue sea. I dream you’ll wash away this disease of unspecified truths. I see the cross loom like redemption. The rainbow led me here, where remorse gnaws like a tapeworm, dragging itself out past my lips. My life is immense. I won’t dedicate myself to muscle and rhyme. Deadly sweet tooth of bliss, aria-in the gloomiest dungeons, at dawn, you warn me. I hear your first in the gossip of the men who raped my mouth and body. Then in the windswept leaves. Two truths, One truth. That’s the final terror we all have to accept-not one or the other, like a friend’s face whose torn-out eyes still recognize you.


The tiny bud scared me. Vicious landscape. I did everything to escape it. I told people I could visit them inside me, mocked the current darling of poetry. Their courteous bows to the smug audience of approval made me puke. Porno magazines, rotting Victorian travel books, medieval passion plays, junked movie sets, refrains from old songs, languages long forgotten, musty albums packed away with snapshots of the family desperately trying to smile-through all of it I saw that hard young body begging to be loved. I even invented a religion without icons or rites. I wrote a brief manual of prayers and regulations, I established walking and sleeping as two basic forms of sacrifice. I described God; obese, lazy, dressed like a stockbroker in His pink shirt and his chalked-striped flannel suit, smoking a cigar. I invented vowel colors, reshaped the cadence of consonants, consigned each syllable to a branch on the oak outside my house. I deleted the sense from poetry until all could hear was a faint abstract whisper like the breathing of a horse thirty feet away. English. English, my precise identity babbled its proofs in dreams. Nothing worked. I wrote silence. I wrote night. On scraps of paper. I scratched down hopeless love. I paced my crummy room like a squirrel-significant, hyper-acute, pathologically quick-but he would not be erased, a thousand years younger by then spread-eagle across my mind, inches from my face, the bulge between his legs, its gossamer brown hair and wild node, a crown I licked all over until he came.


The rich can’t sleep. Wealth should be everyone’s. All the rich know is lineage’s, but I’ve had to transcend my own suicidal habits, my own mute gift for oblivion. Now I’m good. Nothing to repent. But the clock still strikes the hour of absolute pain. Will I end up like a child, in Paradise, without sorrow? Divine love’s the only key to knowledge. Nature’s a display of pure goodness. I’m through with demons. the rational song of angels teaches salvation: Divine Love. I’ll die of worship, of loving the bare earth-both. I condemn anyone my departure would destroy. Save my friends, save the shipwrecked passengers. The ground under my feet is good. Sane at last. I’ll bless life, love my brothers. No more childish promises. No hope of escaping old age and death. My strength is God. Praise God. His omnipotent, abstract, transparent hands soothe my head. No early death for me-sons of good families, coffins glistening with crystal tears. I’ve been rescued by a man, converted, baptized, dressed in work clothes, chained to a job. What a relief? Christianity’s blade, stuck straight through my heart.


Beggars are too honest, they disgust me. Blue-white eyes, skull narrow as a broom closet. I’m like the Gaul’s, I don’t butter my hair. With the splendid disdain of kings. I love all the vices. Bosses and workers, slaves, the hand that writes with the pen guides the plow. History is hands. Will I never possess my hands, be cared for by invisible gods, fed by the sky., entertained by water? Devious tongue, I am lazier than a toad, Feeble, Christian notes, love song, what was I in the last century? You geniuses at profit and loss, what is the body? do you recognize your body? Progress is a great god with a mouth and no anus. The cosmos is a mechanical toy. Chemistry in a teaspoon. The world moves forward, an army without shoes. The revelation of fate in numbers is clear. I can’t explain what I mean, I’m not a ditch digger. I don’t fix wagons or doors. Driven toward the Soul, like a hungry steer. I heard sounds without reference to things outside themselves-the poor a clashing Hell of symbols. Your demolished silence, a king with no mouth.


Fire in my guts, dose of holy poison, crippling me. I’m a living corpse almost reborn, but I slipped away, Happy, Good. I’m ready for salvation, and yet Hell won’t tolerate my song of insolent hope. Life grinds us into ash. My parents baptized me, that water bliss enslaved me, slaughtered me with ardor, Hell, bless me. Only fresh crime could plunge me into nothingness. Give me justice. Her scales emptied of the past. Childhood comes back; grass, rain, belfry when the bell struck midnight. Fatal ignorance,nursery rhymes, Mary, Virgin Mary, you’re a lie. Don’t touch me. I smell like roasted skin. This is truth-There’s no history. Wealthier than a king, I decode secret wisdom’s, postulate the immortality of tables and chairs. Life’s clock stopped hours ago. Theology is somewhere else. Straddling a green wave, Jesus walks on purple thistles, Jesus walks on stormiest water. The ecstatic sleep of mine unveils the mysteries. Have faith, follow me, pathetic, exhausted laborers, fragile children-astonishing human heart, Hell, I’m sold on your glory, your worms and pitchforks, holocaust of lust-I’ve decided to be reborn and study every maimed piece of myself, kissed by Mother Earth. God, hide me, hold me; these words sniffing the ground are starved dogs, packed with sores. I’m hidden and absolutely clear. Smear dress-shop mirrors with wet dirt, choke lovers in bed with powdered rubies-change me. I live and live and live.

Problems of a Drunken Man

He stumbles in and can’t wait for the release. He’s been holding off for over an hour, but finally the tension builds too high.

“I can’t get them loose.” He struggles, but the buttons won’t come open. He’s staggering around the bathroom in a drunken stupor. Considering asking someone for help, he notices that no one is at the urinals and no feet pop out from under the stalls. “What am I going to do now?” His blue jeans fit tightly over his legs and other body parts that might catch someone’s eye in some other situation. This and his not being able to feel his hands adds to his difficulty. His brand-new red oxford is soaked from splashes of alcohol and perspiration.

He begins squeezing his legs together because ht thinks it’s starting to flow, but realizes it’s only water lying on the sink he has leaned against. Suddenly, he feels a trickle creeping along his inner thigh and starts jumping around. “If I don’t go soon, I;m going to have a real problem!” He tears at the buttons again and in the process rips a hole at the crotch. Some weirdo-hippie walks in and he tries to act nonchalant. “I hope he gets out here soon,” he mumbles under his breath. After eyeing him, the stranger quickly exits without even using the bathroom. “Thank God! Now if I could only open my pants!”

He turns away from seeing the door, but thinks he hears it open and close. “What now?” he mutters. The lights go out and he feels a pair of large hands grasp him around the waist. “Hey, what the ….?” the stranger picks him up and shakes him around. He feels the tension in his bladder go away and wetness invades his pants and shoes. As the stranger lets go, he drops to the floor, laughing hysterically. The lights flick on and his buddy is standing above him, a grin covering his face.

“Thanks, bud!” he says through his giggling. “Thank anyone still wants to take me home?”

Dream Travel

The happiest day of my life was the day I dropped him off in the parking lot outside the palace and drove away, watching his every move in the rear view mirror, watching him twitch and shudder against the shadows of the palace. He was fat. The night before we stayed up late and naked in bed with the windows open and listening to the barge horns echo off the bay. And before we made love I took him to the bathroom and shaved his privates. He sat on the toilet. I used a washcloth and wet him with warm water. Then shaving cream. The sharp cold razor across his skin, his sunburned skin, slow and gently. We didn’t talk much.

I could drive back tonight and marry him. I could shave him again under the white light in the bathroom, dress him up nicely, tell him what to say. We could walk down the steps of the palace. It would be cold. The moon would be full and white like the bathroom tiles. The moon would reflect from the puddles in the parking lot where I dropped him off and left him. I was happy!

I will visit him in dreams. All it takes is a personal object, a piece of his hair, a shirt, something he’s touched. I have plenty. You burn candles. You say prayers like god I hate this body, I hate this skin, I hate this body. Then fall asleep with the object under your pillow. Look at his hands in the dream. Look at his dream hands. I made those lines in his palms myself. While he slept.

I drove north all day and cried, listening to different radio stations coming in and out of range. I will send him a map of my body. So he will remember and be happy. I am happy. Now we can write letters and call long distance. Now there are no fingerprints or bruises on my body. I will visit him in dreams. Then out bodies won’t remember the damage. We will be weightless and forgiven, no cold wind blowing across our bodies when we touch, reminding , only warm sky and stars to shine through us. He wants me to come back. We were loading my car and he sat down on the steps and cried. He wants me to come back.

I will visit him in dreams. It’s easy. Oh god I hate this body, I hate this skin, I hate this body, I hate this planet, I hate his hands smearing shit all over my stomach under those cool white sheets under darkness in the palace doors closed eyes open I hate this memory burning in the distance away I hate this distance seven hours of static I hate this skin I hate this body I hate this skin. He’s heavy with words and drugs and a million phantoms circling his body like insects, like heaven, like insects swarming in his head all buzzing my name, I’m gone forever, I’m happy.

So now we come to the end of my story and my poor car in the driveway sweating from the drive and no I’ll never feel his breath against my body again, I’m praying, never, and the letters will stop and the phone calls will get shorter. And this life can’t be rewound like a cassette and played over or recorded again with different voices and rhythms, with different words left unsaid. It plays on and you can’t go back. It ends and then we’re ejected and then what? I have some ideas. maybe they just put us in another stereo. Maybe now, tonight, in my dream, I’ll roll over and find him beside me and he’ll whisper the answer in my ear.