we were
never married
yet somehow
i still became
his widow
Dinner at the Sizzler
if purgatory
is a soup kitchen line
in a catholic church
hell
is serving up grub
on the corner of 8th & vine
southern baptists
pulling up
in their tax exempt jesus wagon
to serve homeless people
hot chili in july
heaven, happens
in Cincinnati
when pigs fly
Born on the Third of July
I’ve learned of a man
who refers to his dick,
lovingly,
as White Rocket.
I imagine I can hear him yelling, “Blast off!” whenever he ejaculates.
The stories begin to simply
tell themselves,
nay?
Mother-Over-the-Rhine
we were four madcaps deep
in a ratskeller bathroom stall
stoned
within boozy historic walls
one of us pissing
three of us smoking
all of us drinking
3 queens and a king holding court
in the men’s room shitter
gods were made
mushroom euphoric
k-hole bar bouncers lamented
upstairs Nagasaki
our glee
our group dynamic pee
a urinal patron
chimed in
with delighted confusion
so
my lips began
to recite a poem
summoned at will
about buying tickets to the show
spoken word,
nay,
spoken turd, i say
he laughed and applauded
on the other side
of our bomb shelter door
in that moment
we
truly lived
every parade
i found your death certificate
in public records
you died alone
in 1995
in northside
as you had lived
you were dead on arrival
at UC hospital
AIDS only left behind your shadow
i was on bed rest with the twins
i couldn’t come to your funeral
i am so sorry
and i hate
that they sent your body
back to kentucky
to the soil that rejected your very existence
cincy pride is today
i went for you
every parade
is for you,
Doug
Aralee
they had a wake
for aralee strange
in a bar
where university poets
showed up to behave
like academic sharks
sparring with street poet jets
i sat beside a man who was
a monolithic Jewish Poseidon professor
on a funeral date
wrong for me
i,
equally wrong for he
though it doesn’t keep me from missing him
weeping openly
in a room full of
a species of staue
films of her played
as her southern voice caused
candlelit
unbloomed lily buds
in table vases
to burst open
Ode to Arthur Nersesian
thank you,
writer,
hep cat,
antisocialite,
for not being
a novelist from Oregon
it doesn’t work that way, cowboy
he expected me
to be true
though everything about him
was a lie
