Black Kamali


Emotional temperature, Klimt in Vienna
White turmoil, memory of Tamar
Burn slowly flower to the flame,
Orange hair wasted on blunt knife.
Wash with winter spoons custard pies,
Place them carefully atop needles and pins.
We claim tomorrow in yesterday’s shoes
Gentian Violet bottles bleed purple
Murder me some Simone. Nina, I love you

Catch the setting sun. The work day is done
Young wives fetching drums wound tight
Helpless, a black Kamali, birthday bong
Ankle bracelet, tattoo tone, gangrene
Charcoal-kiss London boys burning hashish
Dance alone hip-hugging bone, serenading
Saturation! Body afloat wing swept clouds
Blue eternal bliss, eyes closed, monk sleep
Alone in the wintry snow, counting sheep

Birds having swung April’s vine
Backyards form from grass to grass
Cool pale mint moist with spring’s birth
Forgetting, leaving a life lost in melancholia
Now the cat’s meow echoes Depeche Mode.
Mother’s hair dyed, drunken, falling fits
Barefooted, slipping over paper clowns
Scissors sounding, cutting, ruining
Childhood dresses, Halloween masks

Aria For Diva

I
Love was a summer stage
And by its definition, fasting
Could have become idolatry.
The pajama possibility and my
Cracker thin body crumbling.

Hers beckoned towards opera:
An accented femur, fleshed.
Our faces flushed the trust.
What seemingly could become?
A floundering or just suppose
Gathering mouths to speak.

Evenings hint at toasts of passion.
There holds the reasons for
All Diegos' and Fridas' redress.

Liberated by choice as masculine-
Her overachieving tie,
blazer's politeness never causing a stir.

It was to be a night of words
Fallen onto the lap of a magnum
Opus surviving a reader's punk,
Celebrating a strapless gown.

As evening dwellers left wondering,
We exchanged tongues as "Shalom"
To all the "Englishes" I had known.
My poetry was her unleavened bread.
To think the wind hollers Jerusalem.

Walking without effort of wings
Helping us, towards Chinese delicacies.
She never had a Tsing Tao, certainly
Heineken is preferable for a visitor
Having hung her eyes on strangers.

I defied the intolerable, incompetent
Campaign between us, assuming
A world leader's role, only to break
Some bread as a symbol of peace.
Boston, had swallowed her whole,
Where other strangers had borne
Witness to temples and matzo.

I pressed time by releasing steam
Caught inside iron bars within me.
Never thought divinity was blessed
By touch-tone, until Raymond Carver.

II
Our mornings were kissable but
We left them dry among napkins.
The forks friendlier than any
Absurd vulgarity from windows.

It should have been July. October
Shook a leaf, hiding behind masks
Offering a feeling for late cinemas

Still, imagining ourselves as birds
Headed south as a latitudinal means
Never boarded the "V" in the sky
Or any Paleolithic ritual where
Rubbing our bodies to keep warm
Would suggest camping under mattresses
While a bang-box belted a Costello.

Supposing a song could ever be written
About two labyrinths on Christopher St.
What roles would we play in a bel canto?

Our secrets turned into an arousal for
Neighbors bagging groceries to heaven,
Trampling staircases, longing for air
As keyholes were imaginative tolerances.

The days' matinee had an original heart
Circling from avant garde art, then cheese
At an Italian cafe, where conversations
Cured the afternoon corduroy thoughts.

Roads left us that aggregate load
Separating regulars from stubborn
Travelers jigging. We were neither.

On her birthday, we left some of our
Clothes attached, but we contributed
A romantic play written as one act
Which featured breathing without words.

And the eloquence of our bed--
Today, it sits as a heralded thing
Collecting newspaper headlines.

Friends found festive cups cozy
In the apartment where we simulated
Mating chimpanzees surrounded by
Texts that should've made pedagogues
Proud at the sound of the word
"Mesozoic" or a generation captured
As photographs governing quirks.

III
Good-byes were something unexpected
As the Venus in Furs she gave me.
To one day laugh at the moment
Spent opposite each other over
A table at her favorite Japanese,
Where she breathed pass my shoulder
Words meant for a commoner in lust.

She failed me and flowers would never
Resurrect the attitude I had grown to face.
What had collapsed neared a wounding.
The stranger must've been magician
Or a jester in the autumnal chill
Atop winsome roofs observing in
Pauses, her incriminating body language.

I challenged him with cross-examinations
Knowing he had been a fiddle to other
Violins, since he jolted for a Soho triumph
That very night when all I saw were
Taxis awaiting my ride onward.

Each moment wore an expression
Made of plaster, I broke with hammer.
Sleep was an owl's eye as the moon
Created a riddle while I succumbed.
Next morning, a fellow teetotaler
Did everything to keep me from drowning.

Her words when we met again, were that
Of a precocious school girl fibbing.
Speaking not sympathizing in shame.

We walked a short walk towards a pizzeria.
Later I watched her pack compact discs
And tantalizing clothing into luggage
Which were sending her cross-country
As a diva demanding roses after each
Curtain when men block egos
With handkerchiefs and live to suffer.

Postal service sent me a photograph
And it was she who had her nipples
Exposed to the sun: The girth.

Never knew her as a performance, rather
An artist who willed her way willingly.

It was winter and she labeled herself
One with the gender that brings me chaos

Scandinavian Blue Blonde

Oh who are you Scandinavian blue blonde sitting among pajama parties?
Under this circled sun alone in dark glasses mid riff top belly button piercing
Eyes abound all that I see is it Nico in purple dress smashing a tambourine

Shadows at night cigarette lighter flickers he reads a poem by Robert Lowell
Raging darkness people do pass under subway leaving behind their histories
Lessons learned they were told we come from Melville beneath the ocean

Cities left undiscovered share among us your bones and fossils palm reader
Redeem me from this future I cannot afford - I refuse to be anthropological
Oh rescuer of lost poets Munch goddess how you saw into my vocabulary

I dream classical Mona Lisa before my eyes is Romeo’s blue blonde Juliet
Much the same a dream rock and roll each time she sits alone Norwegian
Eyes abound all that I see is it super model Rosie Vela - her music machine

Oh who are you Czechoslovakian teenager imitating Jim Morrison groupie?
Through my eye camera lens I am voyeur – you brush your hair with fingers
Turn your cheek three fourths in profile summon the photographer’s flash

One day when students gathered at leisure I found myself in her company
I had been watching her in wonder not knowing the sound of her voice
She spoke ever softly confessing she was just a typical girl from Brooklyn

That accent ever should reveal what had eluded me all this time I marveled
Fell into conversation within this ceremony of strangers and familiar birds
Circling as if choreographed with whimsy - exceptional natural expectation

Twenty Seven

Who is your god it is not me - my leather pants should foresee all that you are becoming speed with which I drive down empty blocks looking for girls underage

Who is your pimp it is not me – my muscular arms hook around your neck remember you choose to be loved this way listening as I read you words from diaries we keep of love

Who is your father it is not me – you call me Daddy when we make love but it is not I one who held your arm brought you to school - sat at a ringed circus watching elephants kick around beach balls –

Jewish punk at a tender age of twelve burnt platinum blonde torn skirts fishnet stockings oxblood Doc Martins white shoe laces listening to 8 Eyed Spy on dirty cassette tape –

Bedroom walls posters of Lydia Lunch – sun entering window violent powdered yellow red rays from hell –

At night you could hear wolves howl bears roam knock over garbage cans –

On television screen half hour comedies game shows kept you from dieing –

Held your attention from noise outside coming in on cover of newspaper headlines –

Afternoons when mother was polishing knives you took train in from Connecticut-

Here where boys were sophisticated carried on about becoming famous wore bloody grins best described as diabolical

Some were artists other musicians who brought girls into their apartments for show dragged in from clubs and bars

On sofas you made out to The Psychedelic Furs on a stereo some one picked up off Avenue A

If you weren’t popping pills you were smoking hash while sound of two people fucking barely made it out of a room

These were the woods – not little red riding hood who walked in on her parents naked watching cable television

Evening was decorated in pink wigs and shackles as you tried on leather bracelets and boots separating men from boys

Forty hours of no sleep seeking shelter – girls made magic not voodoo talked into night sipping cappuccino

Another band had broken big so you walked in to see – no frills Black Flag waiting on lead singer to take you home

Would he be your god - Teenage Jesus make you crawl up his thighs while he fingered your hair looked down into your eyes

So you spend the night he has his way with you – four days into five you had moved in with him

He comes home with other girls – boys in the band look you over wanting to take their turn

You lock yourself inside bathroom come morning you walk out the door with boys passed out on the floor

Do you believe in god – that dark light which separates good from evil -

Are you symbol not cross but a sign - vision born of darkness into light

What music do you make and will it carry you into arms of tomorrow –

He burns your skin with cigarette for pleasure – this is not what you call love
So you douse his kitchen with kerosene standing there afraid to set it on fire
Books numbered from one to desire hate and trust will determine your fate

Become woman make earth move breath fire into bones see into evil of night

Murder each memory – this is not a place for Catherines from Montauk
Even Jersey girls walk a straight line after hours afraid to look behind them
Among these suburban queens you stand – there is no home for you here
How then can you pass for femme fatale – hung over like blue pill crushed

Wise as thieves on street corner after hours dismembering you with eyes
Rock and roll flesh tattered tee shirt plaid pants – whatever happened to love
Whatever happened to love – sitting beside Johnny with makeshift camp fire
Wrapped around each other he picks up guitar strums while singing a song
He dedicates it to you something true something blue roses in your hair

Not there that’s not where they went these boys who came along mocking
Pushing you this way and that – Jerry beat a bass drum la dee dumb dumb
Smashed guitar tore its strings broke it like wood- damaged it cause he could

All bruised and purple on a bed you resurrected to dance a dance of death
Circling the room your body like marionette turning feeling aches and pains
Arms in the air looking up looking down arms to the side left and then right
You quiver and moan chant and groan one leg up in the air another down

On your face is beauty known to survivors – wear their pain like silk gowns

There is no god – you can mold with fist any man send the cadavers home

Teach a girl to prey all on her own – among the barbarians who walk alone

Twenty Six

When my well lay dry I met a girl from Christian Science

On the streets of Dominicaville where the boys buy a thrill

Watched her Chelsea marionette long legs redheaded Edie

Quarter past coquette androgynous doll oh how hot this city

Burnt umber skin legendary women of poverty glow within

From St. Nicholas onward brown bombshells Paquito’s well

She tripped up along sidewalks neighborhood bodega queens

White sister sashay put to shame this low income housing

Along these stairs much violence have come before then

Whistles in night green air gang-rape gambling at all hours

Inside this room sparkled doom her words ignite holier light

If beauty were lollipop I’d drink champagne glass lemonade

Raise the heavens from her heart ravish bones from flesh

Through these moments spent bent on spiritual philosophy

I pay attention - become overwhelmed by desire yet I resist

It’s with respect I listen and imbibe essentially relinquish

Submit all I was forsaken power I possessed hereby gone

For what a blessing from a nymph my Friday night romp

What body did I have left certainly none existed below

Didn’t know if a push out the door consummate on floor

Somehow I still felt much needed passion cry for more

Couldn’t commit at best meaningless hug throat parched

Along avenues wolves did prey eyes venomous pale limbs

Collapsed warm beer tongue hand’s throb begged for God

Twenty Five

                                                 

Cigalit

                                     

                                                    Kofi Fosu Forson

When I was young, boys rolled stockings up and around my thighs. Soon after, they joined the army. We were never the same. Roadside bombings were a common thing. We watched as tourists came to see The Holy Land.

Here on Christopher Street, I can hardly lift a pen to write the word “tit.” The smell of summer makes me sick. I usually go swimming in the Bronx. My grandparents live there. “We are good to our people,” they always say. They give me money in the thousands. I must say, we are good to our own people.

I love sleeping in the nude, especially in the summer. I lie there, feeling the beads of sweat form in some unusual places on my body. I live with a friend. We exchange similar stories about escaping gun fire.

Across the street, the buffed boys in tank tops argue through the night. The sound of it..? It’s violent. My roommate and I would start gossiping about men. I like aggressive men. Doing it is all about aggression. Once I get beyond foreplay, all I want to do is bite, scratch and hit.

So why then did I fall for a poet? They see with their hearts, think with their minds. Men don’t think with their minds. He came on wanting to light my cigarette. I usually don’t smoke. I take out a cigarette when I want attention. And of course I don’t have a light. So he was doing pretty good so far.

I had him come over. It’s funny, isn’t it? I was sitting there, thinking of a million ways to do one thing. I made a tiny move and he was on top of me. Animals get this way, like they want to strangle their victim. I didn’t give him any but he sure kissed good.

How do I say this? “Doing it…” I don’t believe in it. At least not the way most people do it. The whole thing about taking your clothes off to do it! Do what? Yeah but I love watching it. I recently saw one with Lydia Lunch.

New York girls! Don’t mess with them! They might take a knife out on you…Ditch you for another man right in the middle of sex. New York girls! They would make a dyke out of you. They did me.

Sex with that man was like going through the motion. Oh, so I’m taking my clothes off. Oh, so now I’m naked. Oh, so like I’ll fall on my back and open my legs. Oh, are you in? Oh! Oh! Oh! So like now we’re doing it. Wait; let me try it on top. I think I’ll sit here for a while. He doesn’t like it. He’s getting up. Oh, so now we’re doing it like dogs. Is that it? That was a piece of cake. I can go home now and listen to Abba.

Soon enough we went from foreplay to “no” play. He became strictly… “A friend.”

Honestly, I found myself. I was a New York-Israeli dyke. I did the bars, masqueraded as a man. I even learned how to spit. New York is perfect for spitting. But it wasn’t New York that brought me my true love. I was studying up in Sweden when I met me “a honey.” She was pale as ice. We were the perfect car crash…The dancing, the drinking, the hand-holding by the beach, the soft kisses late at night. The sex! The sex! We were true dykes.

She wanted a daughter. I left for Israel. The last I heard, she had gotten pregnant. I’m thinking that one day I will find a man, an aggressive man, who lifts weights, who can and will be able to make love to me like a woman.

Twenty Four

Art studio woman Yankee tee shirt blue denim reading Chinua Achebe’s

Things Fall Apart Sophia Loren as French Puerto Rican Italian M.I.L.F.

Anna Karinina made pussy intellectual she sits there labia for mouth

Isabella Rossellini “Blueee Velvet” murderous love tub of blue roses

Korean architect dressed in Norma Kamali reading The Economist

Chinese mask for face smiles never laughing smiles her eyes thinking

Talking about architecture modern living psychology and feing shui

Strangers worlds apart kitchen goddess Wall Street clerk receptionist

Continuation education lives interrupted college graduation expected

Southern literary girls wait after class North Carolinian Kentucky slut

Fingers pull at hair’s length discussing James Joyce Finnegan’s Wake

Choosing between woman of screen studious domestic Blue Bellucci

Groupie wanting black cock standing outside school whisper words

Monica art mamita painting White American male David Salle imitator

Courting through summer bad art Basquiat genius at lunch playing muse

Passes potential fuck hallway students lounge she breathes hard breath

End of semester infatuations dreams unfulfilled canvases packed into car

Looks at him black Rimbaud knife in her voice “You’ll never forget me”