Into the Urinal

stock-photo-modern-public-toilets-interiors-a-row-of-urinals-urinating-on-a-blue-background-284774843.jpg

I dip my toes

Into the urinal

For the plastic ocean

Is too pure for me.

Humanity isn’t transparent

Sparkling

It’s deteriorating

Yellow puss

Steaming fat

Urine

                Rot

                                Worthless.

To the driver seeing me in my underware

Sending Middle Fingers
like letter bombs
S.W.A.K.

I know the lice crawling
under the wheel
under the fabric

we both know
which parasite
is in control

coy look
like he know’s
it’s getting in

it will
but to never
return

down my midnight
Detroit alleyway
shit smeared
on walls untended to

all is taken

There
I still wander
asking the wild
defenders of the ghetto
with jack-knife teeth
Just where I’ve run to

Traverse further
outside the inferno
cigarette buds
and losing lottery tickets
you’ll find hell

It’s only the fate
a curious republican deserves

Dennis Cooper

I would never be a gay man
who wrote “The Tenderness of Wolves”
Afraid of obscenity
running frantic
from the most pleasurable
essence of
reality

I’d title the book as my home address
tell them to
“Send semen taste samples
and a self addressed envelope

let the best worship
pepperoni grease scrotum
and ejaculate on the hour

Painting supple,
eager faces
a nice eggshell white.

It’s not a matter of self control
to keep from embarassment

It’s a matter of pulling her pigtails
cock assaulting
back of the throat
pink flesh

tying them
strangling sack

and broadcasting
the nation’s daughter’s facial
in times square

The face marked with
smug pride

you may strive
to be a bore
but I’ll be the nation’s
shameful secret

Uncle Sam’s
throbbing
menace

Illness in Prose

The words dance behind bloodshot eyes like the tip of a flame around the jet fueled cylinder. Swatting at phrases and stories liable for redemption, hoping that this catch will finally get you on the map. That they’ll all be wrong about you and your “success,” as make believe as a small girls dreams of a unicorn, or a middle age man’s plea with fate in playing the lottery.
All I see are pictures. Pictures of my boy hung upside down. Eyes swollen shut. Suspended in the air by over-sized fishhooks traced through his inner organs and workings, wound together like mother’s knitting.
How dark can it get? How far can I travel into the recesses of my brain to find the images that disturb and outrage? How can I be so desensitized to the thought of my own father mutilated and maimed by the hands of terrorism? Or shrapnel tearing through Vietnamese children like a chainsaw cutting through paper?