#52

Shane Allison
Searching For Allen Ginsberg

I looked for you when boys called me a fag in junior high.
I needed you when Ira Miller poured milk in my face.
I searched for you at age 12 when I discovered the wonders
of masturbation in Aunt Tillie’s bedroom,
in front of her black and white Zenith TV.

I wanted us to play with my sister’s dolls together.
Where were you when I was walking in my aunt’s high-heeled shoes?
We could have broke into my mama’s make-up bag, smearing lipstick on our mouths.

I want to tell you about the first time I swallowed semen.
His name was George.

I searched for you on a filthy mattress in some dude’s window-tinted van.
Where were you when Jack kissed me in a game of Truth or Dare,
when Nick stood me up at the movies and never opened my love letters?
I needed your shoulder to cry on.

I searched for you in Dennis’ one bedroom apartment as he licked my ears,
suckled my boner and rubbed my hands with lotion after it all.
I thought you came back reincarnated as his smoke-gray cat.
I searched for you in the reflection of Ben’s windshield, in Robert’s ocean-blue eyes.

I searched for you in the underwear of frat boys,
in the medicine cabinet mirror of John’s apartment
before he left me for a red head from Boston.

Is that you Allen, darling, in the produce section
squeezing apples as ripe as my nipples?

Wish I were there when you read your poetry
on the steps of Florida State University,
when Reagan wouldn’t say the word AIDS in public,
when you shot poetic loads in his Republican scalp.

I search for you in smoke-filled coffee houses,
in every man’s apartment I have ever been in.
I search for you in the tearooms of Columbia University,
the teacher’s lounge of Brooklyn College.

I search for you in the lobbies of bus stops,
in the personals section of gay porn magazines.
I search for you in piss porcelain urinals of shopping malls.
Check for signs of Jewish ejaculate in the rings of gloryholes.
I search for you through the concrete jungle of America.

Thought I heard your voice in the voices of guys who would ask,
“Hey man, you gotta big dick? Can I see your dick?”
I’ll read Kaddish for a hand job Allen.

You appear in my dreams, butt-naked and sweaty beneath my covers
wearing one of my strawberry flavored condoms. Your Beatnik lips circle my erection.

As Collin Haley mounted me in a multiplex movie theater,
I wanted you to be there to watch
and fondle your crotch in the row across from us.

As I look up into the face of the guy in Tom Brown Park,
his dick stuffed in my mouth like a turkey drumstick, I wanted it to be you.
I want you to be apart of my nutritious breakfast.
I want you in my bedroom naked under the covers
wearing one of my strawberry flavored condoms. And in the morning,

Let’s talk about poetry over coffee and English muffins.
Let’s get naked and smoke pot on the hardwood floors of my apartment.
Let’s go whistle at the boys on Christopher Street.
Tell me what’s the best time for you and I will be there.

 

Jan Oscar Hansen
The Sloop

In the bay a single-mast sailing vessel, a sloop, rigged
fore and aft, was anchored near the shore, I swam over
and was met by a couple in their forties who had spent
time and money doing the old ship up. The idea was to
sail along the coast delivering cargo, cheaper than by
trucks and her hold was quite roomy. I didn’t tell them
that most cargo now was in containers and that a sloop
needed her deck clear of clutter. They wanted one more
crew member, kindly offered me a job, knew they didn’t
mean it; I had gladdened them by admiring their ship.
“Too old to climb the rigs,” I said, but offered to cook,
they smiled at that. Restless night I was the captain of
a sloop bound for Buenos Aires, the great city looked
just as I remembered last time I was there… in 1964.

 

 

Justin Grimbol
HOLLYWOOD

if i get made into a movie
make it into a low budget piece of schlock,
put all legitimate talent in the toilet,
let the slop-show glow and
echo through the theater.
if there is any genius in this film
i want it to be accidental
and brief—so the birds do not see me flying.

 

 

Miles J. Bell
Blah

Ever noticed
how all the eyes
of the conspiracy theorists
seem a little too close together?

Or maybe it’s their ears.

I don’t care
if the world is run by
some kind of elite boy’s club.
Let them.
I wouldn’t want to do it.

“They’ve” let me have a little
to distract me from all that’s going on
like my tv and games machine and Peroni lager and my tumble dryer and my
aftershave.
Good. I like
to be distracted. Besides
I already know what’s happening.
It was always the same.
The old round of wars and oppression and waste and
blah.

The worldwide economy is collapsing
red China is powering up
an old man is in the dock for war crimes
and Liverpool will be out of the race for the Premiership
by November.

We were never on the moon, aliens
are among us, 9/11 was an inside job, Pepsi and Coke
are the same company, and Elvis reinvented himself
as Glenn Danzig.
Distractions of a different kind.

Stabbings, disease, suffering, conspiracies
but I have 4 sunflowers in my garden.

 

 

G. David Schwartz
I’d Like To Ask, If You Don’t Mind

I’d like to ask if you don’t mind
Is the word Kiwi a true rhyme?
Say it fast or say it slow
Anyway you say it I don’t know

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