Monday, December 26, 2011

The View

The View

The view from up here—
Is quite telling, worth perhaps
A story or two maybe

Off to the south there’s—
Newman’s Hospital where
Dr. Eckdall delivered me

His son was a Dr. Eckdall—
His daughter Roberta is an
Artist and so is John Evans

Then to the west there’s—
Maplewood Cemetery where
My family is buried

Mother, grandparents—
The Union dead who died to
Make Kansas a Free State

Wood Bloxom is there—
Beneath a Reeble’s stone
The sun shining down there?

East of me is Emporia—
The Athens of the Midwest
Shall we drag Commercial?

Art deco civic auditorium—
Where’d they get the money
During that last Great Depression?

They’ve saved Lowther Jr High—
And Emporia Senior High too
As well as the old Granada

Commercial Street runs from—
Emporia State University thru
Town all the way to Olpe

The Cottonwood River slides—
Thru Peter Pan Park, past the
Monkey Island to Soden Grove

The town of my gone boyhood—
Mapped out still in my mind
Sixth and Commercial pivots
The Midwest Muse around me

And now here I am retired—
Living in Kenyon Heights with
A view of everything I was and
Wanted to be way back then

The other retirees and I are—
Nicely ensconced in moderate
Income housing, there’s the
Broadway Apartments too

I read the Emporia Gazette—
Mostly just the obituaries now
My 50th EHS Reunion is growing
Near but so is something else

Friday, December 2, 2011



“All I want out of school is me.”

Bulging Bildungsroman
Blue Velvet
Saturday Night Double-Feature
Stoic Republican Kid


“Color floods to
the spot, dull purple”
—Sylvia Plath, Contusion

He bruised so easy—
The color of bruised fruit
A purple hickie tells all

I made him in the shower—
He let me do him all I wanted
Guileless young animal

My queer puffy lips—
They gave everything away
Who needed Botux back then?

Ronnie was so vain—
Like a peacock in a zoo
I couldn’t help but gawk

I really couldn’t help it—
I had these fat, ugly fag lips
That trembled all the time

Ronnie’s was vulnerable—
That garish purple blemish
On his uncut young dickhead

Bulging Bildungsroman

Butchy Mr. Bowie—
Gay gym teacher back then
In junior high school

Choosing Ronnie & me—
As the basket-boyz back
In the seventh grade

Little did I know—
What I’d get to see those
Dayz in the showers

We got outta class—
Early to shower so we
Could do the baskets

Ronnie was moody—
Then I soon found out why
His ten-inch boner!!!

It was simply huge—
A king kong cock on the kid
So manly & uncut!!!

“Jesus christ!” I said—
Let me get my fuckin’ lips
On that right away!!!

Blue Velvet

Greasy Elvis ducktail—
Bluejeans tight as foreskin
Pealing it down slow

Beneath blue velvet skies—
Stoic desires made themselves
Known and understood

No words anymore—
Except at the end when words
Became guttural utterances

Blue velvet Elvis portraits—
In dumpy cheap motel rooms
Remind me so much of him

Saturday Night Double-Feature

Coagulated cum—
Salty with teenage tears
The paleness of his body

I forget the movies—
At the 50-S Drive In but
Then I was kinda busy

I sucked him off—
The first wad so he’d
Take longer fuckin me

So laid back & easy—
Biting me on my neck
Calling me a little whore

Stoic Republican Kid

Everything tasted—
Like him, earthy and
Clotted with cum

Conservative cock—
Red State martyrdom
So silently squirting cum

Holding it back—
Making me realize how
Shy a str8t guy can be

Especially Ronnie—
Who liked getting off
But didn’t talk about it


His greased back ducktail—
His Elvis the Pelvis lips
He’d smoke after sex

He’d smirk or just shrug—
No matter how intense it
Was before & after

He was the first guy—
I ever knew who could
Make me totally dick-crazy

I savor his big wads—
All the way back home
And then I’d beat off

No more Sunday school—
No more doing any homework
I worshipped Ronnie instead

I sat thru classes bored now—
All I could do was think about
Cumly ambrosia of the godz

Uncut slutty angels—
Skanky uncut devil boy blues
I had it really bad for him

Despite all my masturbation—
I still had these awful wetdreams
All of them about Ronnie

One time I told him—
About my nocturnal emissions
He just smirked at me

He knew it was his fault—
Sometimes his cum oozed
Outta my erect nostrils

When he shot really hard—
Making me swallow it all and
It came outta me like snot

I felt the faggy shame—
And all that self-loathing
But I was addicted to dick

I was simply a cocksucker—
I’d always been a flaming fag
No need to butch it up, girl

Ronnie was rough-trade—
He could be hoodlum butch
Flexing his tight bluejeans hips

But he could be gentle too—
Taking his time getting it all
The way up my tight little ass

The girlz sensed his maleness—
They knew I was getting him off
They wanted some action too

It made me awfully jealous—
But most of them wouldn’t fuck
Or suck his demanding cock

We’d skip classes all the time—
Smoke some weed & get high
Then I’d get him off twice

The first time a quickie—
After a snort or two of coke
Suddenly blowing my brains out

Then a long dragged out—
Second time with enough jizz
To make his genealogy ache

He was a bad influence on me—
I couldn’t leave him alone and
His tight nutsac was so swollen

Jailbait romance is that way—
Unadulterated by stupid adults
Gimme that jizzy jouissance

Monday, November 14, 2011

Drive-In Poems

Drive-In Poems

Sunset Boulevard

Norma Desmond—
Getting William Holden
Off in the Granada balcony!

Lana Turner—
Stabbing Stompanato
In the Strand basement!

Cute Sal Mineo—
Doing James “Rebel” Dean
At the 50-S Drive-In!

No wonder, my dear—
I grew up so gay in that
Perverted little town!

Small Town Hotspots

Sixth & Commercial—
Crummy Kansas home-town
Lots of sexy hot spots tho

Dragging Main Street—
Like bored teenagers do
On skanky Saturday nights

Peter Pan Park—
A naughty hot-spot for
Cocky gay cognoscenti

The dingy Dairy Queen—
The 50-S Drive In Snakepit
Those backseat blowjobs!

Midwestern Film Noir

The sheer horror—
Growing up gay there
In the str8t Midwest

Emporia ennui—
The Last Great American
Picture Show…

Lovely Nights—
Of the Living Dead!
Hot FFA farmboyz!

Pickups full of—
“I Was A Teenage
Werewolf” rough trade!

Fly-Over State

The Fly-over State—
How did I end up way
Down there for so long?

Stuck in Flint Hills—
“Big Sleep” nightmare
Oh Drive-In Kansas!?!

Why did it take—
So long to escape my
Athens of the Midwest?

Why didn’t I go back—
For any of my lovely
Class reunions?

Reading Beads

Oh, dumpy, schmaltzy—
College town plopped
Down in Kansas!

Like some stinky—
Runny cow-patty going
Ka-plop! out on the Plains!

That little Santa Fe—
Train-stop out there in
The middle of nowhere?

Why do I kvetch so—
Like some old ratty
Rodeo cowboy?

High School Yearbook

“All I want—
Is me outta here!”
The caption says

Ronnie Hines—
My Elvis Presley
Ducktail greaser

Sullen, moody kid—
James Dean smirk
Highschool loverboy

If people only—
Knew how so very
Well-endowed he was!

Lyon County Fair

Standing in front—
Of a Quonset hut full
Of jams and jellies

Tom Jaggard—
Larry Ballard and me
At the country fair

Steven Henry—
And his new lovely
Wife pass us by

Rather quickly—
Steven somewhat
Ashamed of us fags

Sideshow Smirkers

Steve Trimble—
Jeff Hahn, and the
Peppermint Kid

Rather drunk—
At the carnivalesque
Lyon County Fair

Smirking at me—
All pretensions gone
Gone with the wind

“Well, if it isn’t—
Miss Kelly, my dear…
Cruising the chicken?”


Richard Doxtator—
My favorite wise-ass
English teacher

Married to pale—
Jaundiced Janice
Gazette Gossip Queen

Too bad Janice—
Got him first, because
I fell for him really bad

My literary hero—
So Hemingwayesque
I fell in love with him

Diesel Dyke

Anita B. Rice—
She stomps into class
With her butchy boots

Glasses, doing her
Soft-shoe routine

American history—
Drag-show burlesque
Watch out girls!

Long afternoons—
Her droning away
Snapping her whip!

Gargoyle Time

Wood Bloxom’s dead—
Buried there in dreary
Maplewood Cemetery

Thought he’d never—
Shut-up his meandering
Mean old monologue

“Somewhere in Kansas”—
The sun is shining but
It sure aint shining here”

Sickeningly grumpy—
Grotesquely grizzled
Gone old gargoyle…

Closet Cases

Jim Alderman—
Such an intramural
Basketball queen

Flipping her wrist—
Swishing her way thru
Tres gay geometry

One thing for sure—
It takes one to know one
She hated me so

She preferred the—
Butchy athletic types
To my lisp & limp wrists

S/M Queen

Loreto Langley—
Such a mean old bitchy
S/M typing queen

Slapping my wrists—
With her sadomasochistic
Sneaky snapping rulers

If my gaze wandered—
From typing to cruising
Some cute guy in class…

Then she’d wack me—
Really hard right there on
My poor weak limp wrists!!!

Monday, September 26, 2011



Wood Bloxom
Midwestern Noir
Granada Theater
Gazette Letter
Sunflower State Haiku
Kansas Farmboyz
Wood Bloxom (1918—1998)
Wichita Sutra Vortex
Harvesting Wheat
Hippie Kansas Sixties
William Burroughs in Lawrence

Wood Bloxom

The very first thing—
Bright in the ugly morning
His lovely scowls.

“Somewhere today there’s—
A sun shining brightly but
Not in Kansas though.”

Plains geometry—
Isn’t that what Bloxom taught?
Midwestern film noir?

Pragmatic old guard—
Dishing my Naivete
(“I don’t have a chance!”)

Bloxom’s rants warmed up—
Full of Realpolitik
There in the Temple.

Midwestern Noir

The State of Kansas—
More a State of Noir than
Anything, I suppose.

Little college town—
The Athens of the Midwest
USA Stoicism Inc.

The Fly-Over State—
But those of us down here
Born by the Cottonwood.

South of the Neosho—
In William Allen White’s
Main Street world.

Granada Theater

I grew up in there—
Granada Theater balcony
That old Film Temple.

Spanish Colonial Revival—
Finial-topped Towers
Red-tiled roof overhead.

Vulture-capital columns—
Slender arched windows
Above flashing marquee.

Corbel parapet above—
Terra cotta clown figurines
Moorish flavored lobby.

Gazette Letter
Sept 26, 2011

rabblerouser says:
“With the rise in crime in Emporia, maybe they should be turned into detention facilities. A little coiled wire on top of the existing fences, camera's and guard towers and wal-la. A sign of the times. Job creation for security guards and the building's won't set empty. They will be full of Emporia's new trend criminals.”

I like that idea. Saving Neoclassical Lowther and EHS by remodeling them as detention facilities. The same with Kenyon Hall on the old C of E campus. Stark, stoic, gothic ruins—if the Athens of the Midwest is kaput, why not make some money on it?

Keeping the quaint historic business facades of downtown Emporia intact is so very important, of course. As all the other smaller Kansas towns decay and wither slowly away. Or get blown away like Joplin.

If they were here today, I’m sure Wood Bloxom, Ed Price, Anita B. Rice, Richard Doxtator—would agree that those two grand Neoclassical buildings on Sixth Avenue—would be perfect prison facilities for the vast unemployed midwestern moiling masses during this latest Republican Depression.

Instead of being cavalierly torn down and replaced by another ticky-tacky shopping mall? Look what happened to Emporia’s esteemed downtown business interests—when they got a WalMart and a ghost mall instead. Great planning—who may I ask were the masterminds of that fiasco?

You’d think Emporia planners and businessmen could do better than that? Plus putting all their eggs in a single closed-down meat plant Easter Basket—full of Somali slave-labor? William Allen White would probably ask today—“What’s wrong with Kansas, anyway?”

Wood Bloxom was more succinct—“Somewhere the sun is shining, but not in Emporia.”

James Dean Haiku

Dumb Midwest Farmboyz—
Some of my best friends that way
Lanky handsome dudes

Kansas Farmboyz

Kansas Farmboyz—
They’re Red State Filet Mignon.
Stoic, straight, butchy Repugs
That way around other guyz.

Out there late at night—
In their Chevy pickups
Higher than a kite
After a Silver Bullet six-pack.

Well, that’s when—
FFA boyz are stoic geniuses
Leaning back against gun racks
Gazing up at the stars.

Kansas boyz play dumb—
But they gots lotsa RFD smarts
I was just a mere City Slicker
With them under a prairie moon.

Wood Bloxom (1918—1998)

There’s always a before & after—but most of the time we don’t notice it. Time creeps up on us & before you know it—it’s over.

Wedding pictures, birthdays, family photos, snapshots of our youth—they all end up in a cardboard box in the attic.

From there they end-up in the trash, in a pawn shop, in a dumpy antique store—forgotten little pieces of gone Americana.

But yearbooks are the cruelest depositories of nostalgia, not exactly mausoleums of the dead—but pretty close to it…

My mother’s thin highschool yearbooks from the early ‘40s full of black & white photos & world war 2 film noir—handsome young boys off to Europe.

Compared to my yearbook—20 years later, full of naïve little baby-boomers before Dallas, Vietnam, Chile, Watergate, Nicaragua, Iran, Iraq…

Before/after—how many dreams of the future, naïve plans detoured, melodramatic geometries of impossible love & sad knowing flashbacks?

Enough to make a grown man weep—enough to make the most stoic Republican cry, enough to make Midwest Gothic haunt & hurt me even now?

That’s how I feel, Wood—looking at these 2 photos caught in time. Between the ‘40s/’60s—you, me & Amy Jane. Between then & now—this kitschy postmodern sketch.

Generations come & go but mentors span them like bridges suspended over the Abyss—like Bridges of San Luis Rey?

Built by god knows who, ancient Incas with carefully woven strong ropes of osier—taking me back to my gone dilapidated ‘Athens of the Midwest’?

Yes, Wood Bloxom. You, Anita B. Rice, Ed Price & Lois Jaquith—and all the other excellent teachers at EHS from C of E, KSTC & KU.

Students come & go—spanning busy Sixth Avenue. Lowther Jr. High & EHS—ancient topocosmic temples of lost knowledge & gone teen angst.

A small Kansas college town plopped down between the Neosho & Cottonwood Rivers—like a cow patty in a surprised cornfield.

You know all this—you knew it long before I was born. I can tell looking at your face—your forlorn sad eyes gazing at me.

Wichita Sutra Vortex
—for Allen Ginsberg

In the Beginning—
There was Nothingness
Just a whole lot of

The Red State Prairie—
Went on & on for miles
Nothing but stoic cow-patty
Turd plops & railroad tracks.

From grim Topeka—
Way up there north
All the way south to
Oklahoma City.

Kansas the Red State—
Just sit there & wait
Nothin else happening
In this Fly-Over State.

Tornado Alley—
Flattening things flat
Then one day they say
Poetry went Ka-Splat!!!

The Viet Nam War—
Like the Civil War came
And went leaving Kansas
A Border State as usual.

Hippie anti-War—
Wichita Sutras came
And went, things were
As they were before.

Little Emporia—
Calm stoic Athens
Of the Great Midwest
Entered the Fifties.

Harvesting Wheat

True Confessions nothing new—
I fell for this cute farmboy up north
In the wilds of Republic County
The Nebraska border near Scandia.

Up there in Republic Country—
Isn’t that where young Repugs breed?
We were both working that summer
Harvesting wheat for my uncle.

His eyes green as John Deere—
Shirtless in a pickup sippin’ beer.
The light of August during summer
Kinda like Faulkner said…

Hippie Kansas Sixties

Who needed to go to San Francisco—
When it was already right there in Kansas?

Who needed patchouli & paisley—
When your boyfriend’s already got long hair?

Who needed crummy incense or sitar music—
When Kansas was already pretty stoney?

It grew like Weed out there on the plains—
Seeds brought up north between cattle hoofs.

Up from Mexico and the Rio Grande—
El Paso Red from the Virgin of Guadalupe!!!

It was natural being RFD hippie back then—
Pottawatomie Gold & Concordia Highs.

Swimmin’ nude in the Republican River—
Where else would ya find naked Repug guyz?

Groves of shimmering Cottonwoods overhead—
Loud as Santa Fe trains zoomin’ high above.

Out past Capote’s “In Cold Blood” murder town—
Holcomb hiding its bloody Clutter Family dead.

William Burroughs in Lawrence

Once upon a time—Ginsberg intoned words
Into a tape recorder during the winter of 1966

Driving down from Nebraska thru Kansas—
In a VW van bought with Guggenheim $$$$$$

Kansas where Whitman once came thru—
“the cosmos instinctively vibrating at your feet”

To Wichita—ultimate destiny of road-trip poem
Symbolic heart of Viet Nam War USA vortex

“The war is language—language abused”
Black Market Language—funky beltway warlocks

Handmedown mandrake terminologies—
Sorcerer’s Apprentices who’ve gone amok

Riding the simplest broomstick in the world—
Language embedded as War Advertisements

“Wichita Vortex Sutra”—now reads kinda lame
Like some final antiwar poem—fizzled Elegy blame

Since then—many Miss Amerika contests later
Iraq/Afghani Vortex Sutras—clogging the Agenda

Sam Hamill’s Poets Against the War anthology—
Dishing the First Lady in her Rose Garden

Then Eliot Weinberger’s LRB antiwar poem—
“What I heard about Iraq in 2005” etc. etc.

All of it fading like Whitman’s Leaves of Grass—
Each anti-war ditty celebrating its own demise

While Burroughs in Lawrence—sits with his cats
“You can’t fight being possessed—intellectually”