Brian telephones me and invites himself over
He is eloquent, verbosely underlying a sadness
Sullen stories of his damages
Inside himself dances
Steps around the open fire
From his Rhode Island
Portlandian Indian / Apache
Scalping American schtick
Shameless fairy ****
Got lost and
quickly young new hungers
a pack of wolves on a carcass in winter
His innocence ripped apart - hopes
Shapes of dreams in longing
"gang ******...." he recollects
one is ***** by one’s stupidity,
drugged decisions so ignorant
"...(I) was left for dead..."
continues to confide in me, my lips and eyes unmoving,
my ears, a canyon echoing native stories...
Floating three feet above solid ground
in a sling, being bred,
body like a loaf of weak wheat,
says he / is vivid with his memories
"...bleeding, my hole dripping loads..."
uncomfortable I become
squirming and puckering
an odd poster pinned in mind :
an *** bent over
red hand printed, polka-dotted & picked cheeks
activity of an insomniac in twilight, tweaked
fairy fountain spilling over full moon
with a script at the bottom - "Got *****?"
a milk mustache and purple
a gory rendition of *** tales
with a dry snicker
always optimism mr. *** storyteller....
It is His key
humor and ease of availability
to numb himself, sugarcoat his past,
crystalize his hell;
leading to the great ******* hours
partying with the gargantuan
frequent the members, bath-housing
getting ****** was / a *** puppet
moaning the hollowness of it
ventriloquists' drool and pools of lubed indifference...
Brian, Lord of Lost Appetites
ignorance (now, he claims) is blissful
even in recollecting
results of his test at nineteen,
positive lord of bad luck,
always expected it....
this rolling stone
gathered all the midnights in his moss
but grazing always
on the road of loss... and