When a woman says: she likes
The man to take the initiative;
What she is really saying is:
“Yes, I will *******, just ask.”
As I write these words,
I rent The Eugene O’Neill Theater,
Located between Broadway &
8th Ave, on West 49th Street,
No shabby venue, I might add.
Then I stage & cast the play,
Choosing for the role of me,
Myself:  Queequeg.
Ishmael’s Crypto-Gay,
New Bedford, Mass bedmate,
A large, well-toned, muscled
Man of much ink & few words,
Just short pigeon-English phrases,
Utterances such as: “I likee.”
That’s right, playing me is
Melville’s freaky, tattooed,
Polynesian harpooner,
Right out of Moby ****.
And should the ****** imagery &
Metaphor of me—yours truly—
Packing a harpoon in my trousers,
Prove a trifle too scrumptiously
Potent for you, consider please the
****** potential of a three-way with
*Chingachgook.

even when you hate me
even when you wouldn't care if i bled out in my kitchen
even after everything you have done to me
you would still
**** the ****** up clown girl
smile painted on her cheeks
**** her as she trembles
loving every
quiver

you like helplessness
you like
innocence
and small, frightened noises
that is why
you loved
to **** me

Niagara Falls . . .
"Slowly I turned,
Step by step,
Inch by inch . . ."
I am Lou Costello
Stuck in a jail cell
With some ****** lunatic.
Getting the **** beat out of me.
Every time.

casually observing my body from the outside
watching me fall apart
my face sliding off my cheeks
my abdomen rotting
my hands and feet lying listlessly against my bedcovers.

i have become a bystander
a slightly curious stranger
keeping an eye on the ****** on the street -
me
watching my antics
wondering at my behavior
cringing at the pathetic pleading that stretches from my eyes
to my toes
to his phone screen

i wonder how long she can carry on
before her head blurs in its motion
before her hands claw together
before she smolders out
a wait and see
sort of game
how long
can she
last
how fast
is too fast
how much
is too much
how long
before he leaves her alone again

that bridge is long burnt
embers floating away
in the water
the current
dispelling the nightmare

but i still remember the bridge.
and when i see a stretch of water i feel the ghost of it there
clinging to the dirt and the undergrowth

i know it was there.
and it frightens
me

i am not a politically correct person
sometimes i call gay people "****" or  "*****"
not to hurt anyone's feelings
but
because that's how i was raised

history has turned into a blame game

one page forward, two pages back
you say one thing, then change the fact
once a victim, now on the attack
now i don't even know how to act

to be honest
i feel uncomfortable around large groups of black people
not because i misunderstand them
but
because they misunderstand me

history has turned into a blame game

one page forward, two pages back
you say one thing, then change the fact
once a victim, now on the attack
now i don't even know how to act