The Man of the Hole

In the rain forest of Brazil,
they say there lives the Man of the Hole.
Last of his tribe, untouched by the West,
save the bottle caps around his neck,
and the white Adidas shirt
he uses to dress his wounds.

The Man of the Hole is elusive,
but we've see his transient dwellings
assembled where the cassava grows,
and simian meat is plentiful.

In the middle of each hut, he digs a hole.
He hides there when the white men come
with their cameras and gift-axes.

On rare occasions one might catch
a glimpse of the sugary tip of a blow dart
poking through the thatching,
or if one is very fortunate,
his quiet, yellow eyes.

Last night I fixed it
so I could watch myself
as I fell asleep.

First, I saw my small thoughts fizzle
like soda bubbles reaching the surface.
Then, I saw my very soul ascend into the night.
There it was refurbished
by the seamstresses of heaven
as they gossiped about The Way Things Are.
Desire packed his case
and lightly touched the brim of his hat.
Right and Wrong joined hands at last
and set out to find dancing.

As the candle flickered,
and the final shred of self
slipped from my grasp,
I saw in the corner of the empty attic
two eyes reflecting yellow.

They belonged to a dark and living thing,
perhaps with fins,
perhaps with limbs,
but without thoughts,
or soul,
or desire,
or cognizance of right and wrong.

I had seen the Man of the Hole.
I had seen him and in terror,
welcomed night's small death.

Two Women

There have not been enough women,

and the drawing room is all ready

so crowded.

There the plastic fern is toppled over,

and there the hour glass is on its side.

The Sorry! board is on the floor,

and the radio is stuck on Somewhere…

One is dark and one is light.

Both float.

Neither had any use for feet.

One is old and one is young.

They are both so very young.

Two women.

Two women.

One, her cat was hit by a car

and had to amputate its leg.

One, her dog bit my face,

and she still let it sleep in the bed.

Both shrivel when the rain comes,

but drink fully of the sunny days.

These lovely women,

who crowd my drawing room,

and knock over the antiques.

These lovely women,

who I continue to visit,

with my tea service and peppermint.

These lovely women,

dissipating by the hour,

into dusty suggestions of potential,

and knocking over what they can

on their way into oblivion.

Today's Coffee

I tricked Dick Nixon into copping to it.
I gave him a handkerchief.
Then I was Chief of the Handkers,
which has a lot of perks.

Little known:
Perks is short for Perquisites.
And that's why I'm a poet,
and you are a bank teller.
You count scraps of paper,
and I mumble to myself.

If I was an actor, they'd pay me to fart,
which is preferable to cutting up pigs,
or humping a Xerox machine
(those sexy beasts though!)

And Trish Nixon, well, she removed her wig once,
and that is all it took:
You can buy 10 for a dollar
in the wholesale district
and put them on

whatever little politica prances
into the bar, or arcade, or the party,
and gives you that Need Eye beacon -

- like a fake airstrip,
constructed out of lights and mirrors,
so in the nighttime, the Germans don't bomb the real one,
our boys, our planes, our watchtowers.

I remembered this when I dated a girl
who said I looked like a Kennedy.
I knew then I was fucked.

Dear Girl,

Moo Moo.

That's about as much sense
as I can muster.

Member when? Member when?

Oh, those mem'ries keep us cozy.

How's the weather in your ass?
I miss the warm breezes.

Tu tu. Tu tu.

That's precisely what I think of you.

Manchild

I am so young in love,
and a part of me will always be
a virgin, and I know which part.

Our first time, when you pulled
me inside you, I thought
you would yank it off.

My penis became a stalk of sugarcane,
to satiate the mantis in us
for a night - twice that night,
for you were not averse to double take.

And the produce - the crop of me - was gone.

Because when you cannot see a thing,
like your mother's face behind her hands,
or some other peek a boo,
that means it isn't there.

Nowadays, all I see
is the little old man weeping
when I drop my drawers to pee.

The Line

Here's the line:
The line is between making choices,
and making the right choices.
If you only make choices
without waiting to figure out
which ones are the right ones,
then you're fucked.
And if you spend too long deciding,
which choices are the right ones,
then you're fucked too.

Sallie Mae

Sallie Mae, I hate when you call.
It's never quite what I want,

and when you ask what that is,
I never have an answer fit for words.

You called to say my loans were due,
and that we hadn't spoken in a while,

and you didn't know where I was,
as if I had been next to you,

when you fell asleep, and gone
when you woke up. But I have been in the city,

on the other end of the line,
since you dropped me off at NYU.

I swear all that I wanted
was a little less complexity.
I swear I would have made do
with a Hey, How are you? which,
Mother, to you was everything.

Are You Jewish?

An older man came into the restaurant,
saying I looked like a young man

he knew named Howie. He said the hair
was a dead match, which was funny to me

because hair is the most mutable thing
(I had mine highlighted a week ago).

And the old man asked if I was Jewish, and I lied
and said a quarter, which is not quite true.

What else? Well, Italian - I was raised
mostly Catholic, Jesus could kill you - and WASP,

from the Mayflower days with their yams,
and also Syrian, dyers of wool, camel jockeys.

How did those four people get together?
I know! And why?

He said the Jewish part was the best.
I knew you were Jewish, he said.

I agreed and changed my name again.

Still

The core of you,
the dregs,
the body of you.

We spoke on the phone,
the final first time,
saying as little and as much.

You are like my mother,
who I also could not have.

We held hands under the blanket.
I was not allowed beneath the sheet.
But that was not enough,
of a barrier.

We crossed the line,
you and me.
Or rather,
me alone.
You did not draw lines,
only blood.

No holy water.
Only wine.
And I still want the dregs.

Someone Else's Place

It's four in the morning.
I'm losing my footing,
but wanting your core,
and your eye boogers,
cervix,
pulse.

The needle pricks,
the metallic air
coursing around the room
like a lottery.

And you,
unlatched,
unhooked,
zen.

Churning Zen,
which I don't think is.

Is zen an ocean or a lake?

I am the cables which hold the Brooklyn Bridge up,
the fingernails clawing the rot of the pond dock.

As if something lived there,
as if someone needed
my watchtower lamp,
by which to sail,
my call of the hour.

The families of fishmongers
all sit to pudding,
while I, in the crow's nest,
on the cold metal table,
am scrambling for footing...

Would that I had fins.
Would that I had wings.

You. With your photos,
of Things That Happened To You -
a very nice thing to have been said,
a very nice thing to have been done,
you were six vestal virgins,
maligning the seventh.

You. And your lovers,
all pixel and light.
Not the boy-guts they've punched at,
or man-hands they've shaken,
but the photograph paper
you print them all out on.

Now what can you give me?
Your tin can of moonlight?
Your dragonfly whispers?
Your leaning-on-God's-wall diplomacy?

I revert to you, contact you,
dial your SideKick,
slip into the skin of it,
to remind myself
that the questions they asked me as a child
are the same...

I went to the doctor's
and opened my mouth,
and opened my anus,
and accepted all probing of body and mind.

I held my mother's hand on the paper,

let them know me,
and take my breath,
and take their answers.
And I wonder what was left,
with only my blood and no breathing?

A me?
An I?
Who's asking?

You, my pretend friend, are your own answer.

Good 4 U

I sometimes toss my questions out to sea.

Blood in the Bathroom

I crush ants with my thumbs. They are

merchant thirsty on the ledge of the sink.

Other ants make funeral arrangements

home at the Hill –

swaddled in tiny postage stamp flags,

killed in service to the queen.

Whenever I open the bathroom light,

three or four ants on the ledge of the sink,

in their gray flannel suits, and silicon skins,

combing the porcelain desert for nectar.

One ant I name Paul and pluck his left antenna

like a nose hair.

Circles Little Paul goes in,

he goes in circles dragging around his

Will to Life,

relearning what is

HIM and what is

NOT HIM and what is

LEFT and what is

RIGHT.

I spit on him,

he staggers away from the endless drain.

I open the tap,

and he clings to the smoothness.

The water is hot now, and down the

drain, the ant I have chosen to name

is free in the oblivious abyss.