News Photo Murder Victim

News Photo Murder Victim
His warm chest smokes in the cool
alley dawn,
midst trashcans, cats
and cops; squeezed clean of dreams,
needs and precious clutter, his eyes
are empty wallets whose I.D. loosened
to the wind is precious as precious
wind lint is quiet like this man's
quiet moan is precious; a long
drawn moan drifting above
my morning coffee.

wave after wave

after wave
rocks flush
and go
only the algae stays.
in the washing

Midday Crowd

Midday Crowd
On a dark street, cars
weave around people whose eyes
are shopping bags stuffed
with ads. A blonde pivots
on red high heels and the bus
blows by, a blade stuck
in the wind's back.  Papers
blow down alleys, posters peel
from walls, a siren slices
through mid‑afternoon
and for a second, everyone
stopped/mouths open,
just like the end of the world.

Hold The Gentle Demon

Hold The Gentle Demon
Don't go sadlessly, hold
the gentle demon whose eyes
wrap around light like jungle plant life,
whose tongue is serrated,
whose old man ear lobes know
the sound of hungry bellies humming,
the sound of dust in a small Mexican church.
Ignore him
and his thorny thighs will open wide
and his bull‑headed hard‑on
will split your chest and eat heart meat.

Caribou Considers His Genitals (an ABC of Fascist Sexuality)

Caribou Considers His Genitals
(an ABC of Fascist Sexuality)
Long before sex was wine dark or wind mingle, sex was
a bar of Ivory soap and a shower for Caribou. He could
call on the friendly image of a woman, there were dozens
at his command and he knew all of them. He took a certain
pride in the fact that he never invoked movie stars. They
were two-dimensional and unreal! Caribou figured that
nearly every bubble that popped on a man's dick in America
sighed Marilyn, Garbo or Dietrich! Everyone whacked off
to the stars!
Caribou considered it a kind of bondage!
The water was just so hot. He went through the list.
There was Donna, who wasn't very pretty, but had a lovely
body. She was young, as was April, who later turned out
'bi'. Frail women were loveliest of all, except for that
other Donna, a good thirty pounds overweight, who was like
those old powder puffy paintings of chubwomen naked with
wine stains on their lips. There were lots of older women;
mothers of cops and friendly neighbors, teachers and a
lady cop. Tonight he settled for a Judy, which was a
very nice affair on a crushed velvet sofa in which several
positions were achieved till finally the shower got hot,
hot, hot and Caribou's cum hit the water.
He grabbed a Canon towel. The door mirror was long and
misty. A vague image slowly emerged from the fog with
eyes burning in a bony face and a body centered around
the black tangled droop he called his cock.
Caribou sat back on the toilet and sighed. The mirror body
was strange, it had hair on its chest. It was a man's
body, but his? He remembered real men, hands full of
grease making wonderful gestures, kicking the ground or
smirking into beers. They had sloping street corner
shoulders and talked through the cigarette dangling loose
from their lips. There were millions of kinds; some had
silver handled canes and strolled gypsy camps in the
Black Forest. Some were secret night thieves, elegantly
picking tobacco from their tongues in grand hotels;
triumphant in all things, but fallen in love. There were
doctor men, lawyer men, business men and even Van Gogh and
Gandhi men, but what in the world was a Caribou man?
Caribou wiped his ass and flushed it all away. Standing
up, he took his cock and his balls into both hands. They
were so ugly. Wrinkly and gray browned like ginseng roots
in water filled mayonnaise jars in Chinatown windows.
Knotted, twisty and earth crusty, ground to a tea, a good
headache cure for women being bumped by baggy old husbands;
grunt heaving to the edge of a heart attack and dicky spits
in the bucket instead. Flowers were beautiful and women
flowered between their legs in pink folds while men were
merely roots; potatoes and yams all drippy at the end and
clotty round the shanks. It wasn't only roots, it was the
turtle's neck, the rhinoceros' baggy eye and the knee of
the elephant. There was an infinity of saggy, water bloated
skin in the world, all of it guilty of the same crime
against perfection.
The only saving grace in the entire stew of male genitalia
was the erection. Caribou day dreamed a smooth stainless
prick towering in a world of precision. Perfectly lobed
around the head. Symmetrical, spotless, shining in the
Sun; the axis of the universe. He wanted a cock like that.
A grand cock with a glorious thrusting flesh blue vein
shafting straight to the shot of that perfect lobe.
With a shank like that obscenity would be no more. People
would pilgrim to it bearing baskets covered with warm
towels. There'd be dancing. Mayors would swear on
solemn bibles to the cock. Cooks would bake cock cakes
in all the restaurants. Poets would ode to the cock of
peace and plenty. They'd put that prick on dollar bills.
It would adorn placemats on interstate highways inscribed
with little known facts about the creature. In short,
a cock that could rule and guide the world into an immortal
peace for thousands and thousands of years with fruit
trees planted at its mighty base.
While being kind at heart, Caribou was no fool, he knew
it would be no bed of roses. There'd surely be envy.
Those men of little girth would saunter all bent in the
back around the shank. Standing in their little lines,
those wet rags with heads folded down, fingering their
little peepees all loping to the floor. Caribou's heart
swelled with compassion as he saw them grubbing around
for one little hard on.
Eventually Caribou would step brashly into the heavens
and wrap his arms around the Sun, that wanton ball of
flames. From the frog pond world, the Earthlings would
look up with lidded eyes as Caribou probed the core of
all fire and light, his cock become a fine sheened alloy
absorbing all the heat and light of creation, till finally
the universe is cold with winds whipping through a
darkness all over the world. Widows make offerings,
science pleads to Reason as politicians deny responsibility.
Just when the whole world walks bent back away, bereft
of any hope, Caribou yanks it from the Sun which has become
a raisined little tar ball of carbon while Caribou's
glorious shaft cums time after time in magnificent spurts
of newborn Suns, newborn worlds and new creations. Thousands
of Eves and Adams sprout up everywhere resplendent in a
perfect sexual light.

Caribou Dreams of A Manly Supper

Caribou Dreams of A Manly Supper
He walked along the rows of suburban houses. He
was 17 years old. Gradually, evening soaked up the colors
of the day and the houses took on a mythical warmth; each
window glowed. Surely these ovens were brick warm with
supper. These were no French fries! No potpies here!
Caribou wouldn't have it! These would be porridge dinners
and strong staff bearing men come home from the grasslands
where they labored. The women would be big boned and grand!
Hand on a wood spoon, her eyes drifting towards the
children like a falling of leaves. Forearmed Caribou
lays aside his staff, reclines by the fire and tells of
the creation of the stars, the death of Actaeon and the
pride of Achilles. Later on beneath quilts, their little
faces pink blush the darkness, the door closes slowly
to blackness.
In the back of Caribou's skull a sleeping dog browns
before a hearth.
Caribou snapped his fingers and laughed out loud. Life
would be simple. After a few turns around the globe
on a whaler. After a close call with the headhunters
of New Guinea. After the spine tingling finish at Le
Mans, the breathless blonde, the casino money intrigue
and love on her brown body on ocean in evening.
After sewing fantastic oats in the world's most far flung
corners, he'd grab a blonde pig‑tailed babe and head for
Heidi land, milk goats and learn the secret of the Alpines
from old shepherd men with long gray beards.

Caribou Starts An Army

Caribou Starts An Army
Stinky and Caribou decided little Ray was gonna be 4F.
He was younger, he whined a lot and he was stupid. Stinky
said that that was common among Mormons. Ray's father
was a short tyrant with lots of black hair on his arms
and he was always pushing his glasses up his nose. Little
Ray would bullshit on and on about the Great Salt Lake
with his postcards of the Tabernacle Choir. This jerk,
this asshole was not gonna be in their army. Stinky
said no. Ray insisted. Caribou said no and he still
insisted. He'd do anything to be in the army. Anything?
Caribou wanted none of it till Stinky pulled him aside
and lectured him about the nature of real armies. Accord‑
ing to Stinky, armies were made up of people willing
to do anything. Little Ray's desire had to be tested.
They shook on it.
They decided to allow little Ray in the army only if he
agreed to take a physical. The little dope agreed. They
went behind the garage. Caribou and Stinky stood hands
on hips, humming and hawing, kicking the old tire you might
say, as little Ray stood there embarrassed and naked. They
agreed that it was an interesting specimen with its fat
little tits and stubby chopper. Stinky had him bend over
for a closer inspection. His cheeks were speckled round
with freckles. Even his asshole was red. All those freckles
looked like stars and that big red asshole was like to some
supernova in a red and white universe, centered by an honest
to God black hole. To stop all those freckles from ending
up in Ray's asshole, Stinky took a stick and plugged it up.
Shortly thereafter, Stinky and Caribou deserted. The army
had gone chicken shit, taking in creeps like Ray.

Caribou Comes To A Highway

Caribou Comes To A Highway
From high atop an overpass he looked along the massive
asphalt; one long stone going everywhere. His fingers
wrapped around the cool blue steel of an anchor fence.
What a loud and secret thing it was! Trucks rumbled
in long streamlines of wind! Slick fast moving cars zipped
off into the night, swift like a snake tongue snapping!
Radio songs came and went! Fast headlights white and spangly
coming this way, red lights gone and going that way! All
that sparkling glass banding the world around like
shooting stars in harness. That way to dank New Orleans
where a bartender closes his bar and an old piano player
plays to himself beneath the gliding hush of a slow
spinning fan on the ceiling. Straight off the San Fran
sailors were strolling docks and winking at whores. A new
world! A brave world with Chicagos, Miamis and Amarillos!
With Gold Coasts, Zanzibars and Pensicolas! Pulsing
from far off, throbbing alive in the stony maze beneath
his feet, itching to get a move on, to shift gears and
advance token to boardwalk.