promises

when sings my precious, whispers in profane tongues
warm and whimpering, and see, father, i smile and
i will bury you, little cuckold, out beyond the jackal-weed

your secret

and in the dark, to bind him enwrap him
keep him in the darkness, secret in your
garden, a voluptuous flower entire to you

3

he lay with tear-salt on his bourbon sweet lips,
smiling loopy kiss-me-quicks, smooth quicksand
mouth singing doo-wops in round hungry sounds

were i

and were i kissed, just some salacious foundling
cast as kabuki starlet, woven into haiku-driven
melodrama, set on stage's edge above the orchestra

were i bended painted shadowed mascaraed
directed into submissive couplings, apathetic
humiliating poses of condescension, neutered

banality, and were i violated, plundered and
displayed, their sing-song unmodulated straw boy,
dancing until their sniggers broke my rhythm

dancing to their mal-syncopated caresses, swaying
bending arching, the day's tremulous frivolity, gaining
encore applause bravissimo bring-on-the-understudy

oh, were i young

News! oh gentle readers. 'The Tale of the Magicked Lad' has been accepted for publication by those good folk at The Scruffy Dog Review. Come back for dates later. Hurrah!

a son

he buried secrets by the garden path, placing
drops of tears in a gentle sweep, shimmering
his humiliation into bleached soil, the very perfect

son

the perfect crime

murder isn't made of sugar, or so says the
holly bush, reddened with late summer berries
isn't spun of camomile leaves, roasted to

submission, or so says the lonely gatherer
raw from the perplexities of the fields
hobbled by the rutters that desolate his

rows of barley nuts, stands of nightshade
sweetly hidden by those riotous cumquat
vines, isn't woven of old men's rails

or say patter-pittering brush-hogs, archly
discoursing through their late day scampers
atwitter as they daintily munch their scones

doesn't paint the painted lady, smooth away
the idle desolation, flick the lazy harbingers
who hover snipe betray snip and gossip

isn't made of sorrow, scotch and milk in
paper cups, oblique oglers hovering at the edge
with their shifting feet and flailing hands

or say simpering husbands, flagellating
nephews and mirror, mirror on the wall
who is the best, better, bestest of them all

the foot

his foot slid down, breaking what little harmony
could be found here, within this paper box mortared
breaking the folds twists holding him to the bed

slid down until his toes touched the startled
stone, saying nothing to me, whispering idly
furtively, sweetly noxious sweetly magicked

calumnies, a movement of sallow conspiracy
a grasp, a pandering of pitiable transgression
suggesting that i would contribute to this

mise-en-scene, gothic ill-timed melodrama
that i would listen to the asides, follow staging
of a devise that could hardly bring me glory

slid down until i heard the gasping breaths
of the audience, expectant sniggards from
the trade the shops the jolly-come-latelies

straining forward in velvet comfort, aroused
by their scent of titillation, aroused that i
would succumb, their private their own their son

pater

i say the words, trip my little steps, pluck
from the wild jasmine that hid my father
pitter a little patter on the garden stones

i never listened to the forest frogs, though
their whispers came to me, though their
sensual implications fell in repugnant

waves, i never listened to the weaver women
raucous bawdies somewhere out beyond
the banyan trees, that may have had his

ear, his tawdry impulsions, may have held
some distraction from our peonies, unbalanced
the tender care so demanded by our jonquils

i ever favored council from the lunar moths, for
who would not succumb to secrets caressed
directly from the flesh, drawn directly from the

corpus of a parent, flavored by its salty
indiscretion, its incipient putrefaction, who
would not glorias, ad deum, make his chorale

here, in the hallows, where tse-tses pollinate
my crocus, where i may dig with due observance
and wait, for the flowering of my father's smile

curious

sh-bop bop doo wa went the finger-snappin boy
curious bout the fine fine place that let him
creep, let him crawl let him do his twistin dance

snap de dum dum strong fine fingers did
their shadow puppets, curious bout the
hammer flat raffin chords his ole daddy

stole when he was a boppin be-boppin lad
layin the land, makin the 2-step, showin
spectaculars to the audience, curtain-callin

his exits, bringin down the house-husband
cheers bravos mores ain't-he-somethins
curious bout that son-a-bitch but muggin

to the suckers, takin dimes from the cousins
was a day behind the times, cause he was
curious bout the flow, flimmin flammin

didn't put the cherries in his bowl, pucker up
his velvet lips for kiss-em-quicks, butter
'n honey tongue for casual speculations

he was a master commander fireman chief
engine-man, chubby checkerin in this fine
fine place that gave notice, counted the applause

slowed it til it beat his heart, ooh ooh ah
only chorus boys go toe-to-toe, wrap the
world in key of g, oh how he was curious

the float

he was an immoderate man, choking d-flats into
his steel horn, riffing down intemperate a-sharp
sugary crusty donut shaped violations

he throned those iron steps scratched out
from his bedroom window, splayed his toes
shook his arms to free the juice

listening down, waiting out the breathing that
stole a few half-chordal splutters, squint-eyed
o-ing his lips to mimic back a few

gray crossbay air nibbled at his chest hairs, maybe
eating them down to their stump, maybe
acidizing through his pores, making a caustic trail

maybe he'd coda out some butchy-boy noise
blonde hair glisses, frat-bunny do-wah do-wahs
runnin-the-bridge makin-time atonals

his leg found some dancing, shaking a wrong
old beat stutter stutter what'd-i-ever-do-to-you
and everybody knows boys don't cry

boys don't get sweet inspiration, make sweet
choices, make supper with sushi make-believe
and he splayed his toes cross the edge iron

steps, swimming in the moonlight, surfing
slip-sliding, chasing dizzies, gutting out
and making kisses on his horn, steel smooches

making him a good boy, an honorable boy
a make-me-proud boy, and he gripped the
iron one last time, then did the float

child

child held his smile in careful hands, bewitching
any foolish untoward look that stumbled over
his close small ears, small hungry gatherers

predatory gatherers of short wish-worn words
eroded in their passage, stripped of any
contemplation, strangled in their failing

and child did a revel-fat pavane, clever
little foot toe heel prance, again, again
but slyer higher slower, catching in their

bemusement, entrapping in their fugue
music that dements with butcher-quick slivers
of such small and miraculous perfection

a bringer down of the already undone, the
unwrapped unwoven unstoppered founts
that followed child, feeding him their

humiliation, their prayerful supplication
consorts to his ennihilation, plastic figures
before his throne, before his hunger

for child was a hungry child, who lived
upon the sad embittered desolation
that lay beneath his dancing feet