The uncut Jewish man,
closet homosexual,
wrote letters to editors
bashing gays, exposing
his anti-Semitism.

Home in the dark
he wore a cotton dress
with its imprecise matchings
and meticulous hem,

regarded suicide
as the ultimate expression
of self-criticism.

At the autopsy,
the coroner concludes
he died from an overdose
of inhibitions.

At the service
the rabbi mourns
his penis. Onlookers
crowd the temple, looking
for ways to grieve.
All drink heartily. Shattered wine glasses
mar oak, leave
nuggets of ash scars.

Whip marks hang
a sign: IF YOU DON'T KNOW YOU'RE HERE
WHERE ARE YOU?

Who knows why any
one must analyze a dead
body? When his wife
finds the note
in the book
under his pillow,
she marvels at the typos,
how neatly folded it is.

I walk to keep weight down so I can continue
drinking, stub my toe, stumble
like a bull, stunned by impact
seeing stars, bruise a deep bone, strain
a muscle near heart, pain constant as breathing.

Early April. A little rain followed by some sun.
I plant a row of seeds, expect the fruit
of flowers, get late snow. Is that stable irony?

I don't lead a well-balanced
life, mine probably like yours
a loaded gun, thumb
cocked, the itch of hammer.

I have the power to kill
not the will to be killed, am weak enough to wine, consort
with the inconsolable misery. Facing Death; the prospects
of convention, I come alive: Echo of the shot
ringing world, ashen coward prepared for place

caught off-guard in a guardless moment

one livid silver bullet
from the flux of being.

Born in pain to flaw, falter, a future
of affliction; the wink of glint
in haystacks; what promise
without the fury, terror of Calvary?

If not saved by pain
from pain,
what?

Kids love baseball and
climbing trees and
sticking a finger
into frosting and licking them
selves and walking in sleep
dreaming of oil lamps and out
houses and Great
Grandma who could cure
anyone
of anything

before curfew and the cops come out
from closets
with their boots on
brandishing sticks
because times change
immunities sink in and
streets riot with civility
in ruins from Death by mad
stabbings and wicked
bullet wounds and rivulets
of blood and canyons of revolt
in concrete and barbwire hums
from pole-to-pole and no one alive
listening anymore
but

I can never forget
a high hard hummer
thudding a brand new catcher's mitt
greasing the scent
and all that goes with it
can I?

Think about a field
of cows, waves of wildflowers, bull
in rectangular distance, a barbwire fence
electrified. Watch
through the window
on the driver's side
of the station wagon
while the wife buys
three ears of corn
from the stand across
the dirt road. Know
their story
close up. Married
for 15 years, they live
in a house with 5 bed
rooms, no children, no pets, this
one hobby. Within the intense scent
of cage, listen: A single cow hums
distressful satisfaction. The bull's
knuckles whiten on
the steering wheel.

How magnificent
it seems
when we walk this far
a place we've never been
on a cobblestone road
slicked by rain
between brick walls
built before we were born
and it starts to rain again
our only shelter
the small umbrella
you stored in a carry-on
and all-we-know-is
we're somewhere between
Number 14 on the "Walking Tour"
strolling toward 15
anxious from ignorance
when a bus arrives
and we get on
as the Romans do
without a ticket
ride standing, get off
at the last stop
St. John of the Lateran
and we go inside
stalk the walls, the ceiling,
the floor, our souls
grown warm
and we share our small complaints
while our hearts add
kindling where we burn
as if by burning
we are unborn again
renewing the vernacular scream
our bones, blood almost completely
out-of-breath again.

The intimacy of a man
before a mirror
sliding his tongue
tip between his lips

moaning as if mouth
were invented to distract man
from sight, moaning
at the reddish-purple forefinger

picking pulp from teeth.
The man pats his head
with his eyes, soothes his hair
in place, cannot peel his gaze

off this face, apart
for the time being
from history
of his life, offering him

self in this way
to glass, plum juice
stuck to his chin
sucking his snug thumb.