Escape from Emporia

ESCAPE FROM EMPORIA

Emporia Evenings

“Though nothing can bring back
the hour of splendor in the grass,
glory in the flower, we will grieve
not; rather find strength in what
remains behind.” —William Inge,
Splendor in the Grass (1961)

On long summer evenings—
When the town leaned over me.
Cool sylvan greenness—
Beneath the svelte Elm trees.
When front porches of houses—
Bathed in the Kansas afterglow
Turned to me and said knowingly—
You shall be our Queen my dear.
All the foreheads of the homes—
Wrinkling in joy at the discovery.

Wisteria bushes exuding joy—

Boys on bicycles fainting.
Sidewalks singing like robins—
Meadowlarks flying in for arias. 

American Gothic Lite

American Gothic Lite—

What can I say about it other
Than what I’m saying now—
My so-called Midwestern
Existence in that shitty little
Cow town by the tracks—
Shitty little college town
Plopped down like some
Unexpected indiscrete
Cow patty out of the Sky—
Divine topocosmic City on
The Hill—inner sanctum of
Republican gods—sacred
Ordained GOP precincts—
Entrails of owls consulted 
Astrologers mapping out the
Vast Peenemünde prairie sky—
As I fell down into the dawn

Of the Living Dead…

Emporia Kansas

All the Emporia dead—
Walking around on dead feet
Driving around in dark black
Limousines that are really
Hearses for the living-dead—
Knowing all the small faces
Knowing all the small lives
And me already dead too—
That’s what living in a small
Town does to you even when
You’re gone—fucking you over
With the slow realization that
Small minds never change—

They just get worse…

Old Postcards

Looking thru old postcards
Old family photo albums
Archives of the Living Dead—
Feeling the aches and pains
Intuitively like they felt it—
Accepting the awful truth

About myself and them—

The ones who stayed there

Living in dumpy Emporia.
Moment to moment—
The stoic resignation that

Comes with being born dead—

Out there in the sticks in a

Dying small Midwestern town…

Midwestern Gothic

“Admittedly I err by undertaking
This in its present form” —James Merrill,

The Changing Light at Sandover

The Kansas light—
It doesn’t change like the
Changing light over Sandover…

It doesn’t change at all—
There’s nothing poetic about it
Not like James Merrill anyway…

Even if it were that way—
I’m not the poetic type and
Besides words aren’t my thing…

The thing is the Light—
The way the cold winter light
Slants down thru Elm trees…

The way it comes down—
Across brown grass lawns
Emporia streets and sidewalks…

Stoic grim sunshine—
Cold resigned Republican
Bible Belt sunshine…

The kind of sunshine—
That’s unforgiving and cruel
Stark Midwestern gothic…

The kind of sunshine—
That doesn’t discriminate
Between the living & the dead…

The kind of sunshine that—
Slants down against ancient

Tall Greek grain elevators…

The kind of sunshine—
That sleek Santa Fe tracks like

Hard & cold as steel…

The kind of sunshine—
Coming down thru empty porches
Empty swings empty flowerbeds…

The kind of sunshine—
Down thru old-fashioned curtains
White-lace windows facing south…

The kind of sunshine—
That dark green African violets
Love to soak up all day long…

The kind of sunshine—
That old rocking-chairs know
Rocking in the warm rays…

The kind of sunshine—
That makes little things count
Especially long afternoons…

The kind of sunshine—
Inside old photo albums
Shining down the same way…

The kind of sunshine—
That makes you homesick
But you really don’t know why…

  

Miss Heinlein

“I didn’t like free-fall.”

—Robert Heinlein,

Time for the Stars (1957)

Back in the seventh grade—

I had this strange sci-fi gestalt

Sitting there in the cafeteria
Reading Heinlein during the noon
Hour. It was 1957—there were
Still WPA murals on the walls.
They were always reminding me
Of the Thirties—the Depression,
The Dust Bowl & all that. But
Heinlein was just the opposite—
Time for the Stars jumping into
The future—Torn and Pat as
Two telepathic brothers—one
Goes for a spaceship ride while
The other stays home. Telepathy
Is faster than the speed of light—
It’s instantaneous. That’s why
The Long Range Foundation needs
The boys—to communicate between
Torchships and Earth. The ships
Don’t go faster than light yet—
Even tho they would in the future.
I was sitting there reading this—
When the WPA murals started
Going Jell-O on me. The murals
Disappeared—I suddenly realized
If Torn and Pat’s thoughts

Could go faster than the speed

Of light then so could mine.

   

And if I had a telepathic brother—

I could go to the stars too...

Sluggish relativity wouldn’t

Slow me down—We could still

Communicate. Then Sputnik

Happened—and science-fiction

Started becoming real. But all

That spaceship stuff bored me—

Astronautics wasn’t my thing…

I just wasn’t MIT material.

All I really wanted was a—

Telepathic brother…

Brain Dead

It was pretty easy—

Being brain-dead back then
in Emporia Kansas—
With all the dead retired
Farmers and dead widows
And decaying memories of
The Living Dead—even tho
Being young obscures
The obvious Death Wish
Pervading small Kansas
Towns out on the prairie—
It’s always been that way
Since the lonely horridness
Of the Plains got even with
those that stayed there—

Stayed there & couldn’t get out.
The ones in your yearbook
Always there for reunions

Stuck in the same old rut—
The only difference being
You’re looking into the Past
They’re looking out of it—
Dying Commercial Street
Sliding down from campus
Past the Santa Fe tracks—
Down to the Cottonwood
River Bridge where Death

And Lorna Anderson waits
Patiently just for you—
Even in Deadsville there’s
Still sex & blow jobs to be
Had in Peter Pan Park going
Down on stoic guys who
Needed it on Friday nights—
Grinning skull-death groins
Inside tight truant bluejeans
Looking for some action—
Sexy young genealogies of
Cute Mexican guyz putting-out
For ten or twenty bucks—
Sucking off guys on the
Wrestling team in the dark
Parking lot after practice… 

The Emporia Gazette

I didn’t mind it much—
Really it wasn’t that bad
Being a fag way out there
In the middle of Nowhere—
Growing up in that dumpy
Little Kansas college town
Full of retired farmers and
Old widows waiting to die—
There was always young
Collegiate cock to suck
Next to campus there in
My neighborhood—run
By unscrupulous ghetto
Landlords subdividing the
Old mansions there on

Come Back Little Sheba

Street into tacky little

Apartments and dumpy

Little hovels and garrets—
Where out-of-town young
Undergraduate cute guys
Needed a quick blow-job

Every once in awhile from
Some queer paper-boy
Like me going from door to
Door peddling subscriptions—
Even dead towns deader
Than doornails—even they
Need to get off sometimes—

Just to kill the monotony of
Living day-to-day there in
Zombieville Kansas USA—
Lonely boys a long ways
From home there at dingbat
Kansas State Teachers College—
Especially cute Phys Ed jocks
Needing it really bad with all
That pent-up Venus-torso
Energy—all those big biceps
And moody manly muscles—
Those nice big jock legs tight
Around my nelly neck—their
Long drawn-out Edgar Allan

Poe Premature Ejaculations—
Playing dead while I got my
Lips on exquisitely serious
Cases of nice rigor mortis—
During Finals or cold winter
Nights ringing their doorbell—
The Emporia Gazette never
Had a more devoted young
Paperboy than little queer me—
With my news hungry lips and
Look of blushing shame as

They shot their wads and blew
The back of my head off…

The Sunken Gardens

The Sunken Gardens after dark—
At the foot of Commercial Street 
And Splendor in the Grass Avenue—
Back then late at night on campus
When everybody was in bed except

Alma in Summer and Smoke—
Played by innocent little naïve me
Communing with dark Stygian
Moody drop-dead guys who
Couldn’t sleep either during hot
Spring nights when the sound of
The Fountain oozed with love
Under vast boulevards of shady

American Elms leaning down over
Lush rose and wisteria bushes—
Blooming sweet and sickly back
Then when my shameless teenage
Lips knew no shame and secret
Friday night rendezvous dates
With the young living undead made
Life bearable in that strange RFD
College town plopped down in the
Middle of nowhere in some lonely
Pasture—plopped down innocently
And nonchalantly like some runny
Shitty stinky cow-patty lying there
Beneath a cold heartless sky—
Full of cold Kansas stars that gave
A shit whether anybody fucking

Lived or died…

Summer and Smoke

Deep dark Sunken Garden—
Alma of Summer and Smoke.
Her shy coy voice was mine—
Astonishing the brickwork.
I knew some cute guys—
A sophomore from Topeka—

Some guys from Kansas City.

A basketball player from Wichita—

A kid from Dodge City...
My first semester at college—
I loved William Allen White Library.

I got to be friends with a professor—
Who played Chopin as we had drinks.
My carnal knowledge beginning—
Much too early in the 7th grade.
Too early for my own good—
But I never got bored after that.
The scene was archetypal—
Dark at the Top of the Stairs.

Emporia Diary

Dearest Diary—

Nobody wants to read you

Except me the esteemed author...
But, oh well, who cares—
I’m writing for you anyway.
I’m enjoying myself thoroughly

Reading real dirt like True Romances

And True Detective Stories—

Plus pulp fiction romances like

Lady Chatterley’s Lover…

I’m just a dumb little local queen

With a couple of boyfriends

Who put out sometimes when

They get bored or whatever.

It’s no big fucking deal after all

Small town queens have always
Been a dime a dozen—hanging
Around minor metropolises long
Before Rome became imperial
Queen Bee Bastion of the Rich

And Famous—it really doesn’t

Matter much in the Show Biz

Scheme of things—I’m just

Another dumb naïve cluck full
Of fickle faggy faggothood—
Back at Emporia High School
With my cute butchy farmboy
Lover boy in the parking lot—
Hanging around in his dumpy
Chevy pickup truck playing
Hard to get—like all the other

Young demigods down thru 
Long centuries of stoic
Republican chicken beauty—
Embedded in conservative

Red State political rectitude…

Bette Davis Lips

It was pretty easy—
Being a fag in Emporia—
After all if William Inge could
Do it surely I could too—
With a little help from Tennessee
Williams and Hollywood maybe—
After all I had big beautiful
Marilyn Monroe lips, baby,
Right out of Bus Stop—and
A pair of big dumb Kim Novak
Bedroom eyes mooning outta
Picnic—plus my Platinum
Barbara Stanwyck dyke wig
So smooth and streamlined
Out of Double Indemnity—
Deeply in love with this guy on
The Emporia Football team—
Rendezvousing with him at
The local dumpy Dairy Queen—
After each exciting game with

His Sorry Wrong Number lips
And haughty Bad Attitude—
His quarterback hard stomach
And his butchy Joan Crawford
Shoulder pads—picking me up
In his fast sleek Chevy hot-rod
With his big pouty str8ht dick—

His cruel “What a Fucking Dump”
Bette Davis smirk—how could

A guy be so butch and yet such

A fucking bitch—twice the man

I was and yet three times the

Woman I’d ever be—some

Guys like him were so over-sexed

It just oozed out of him in both

Fucking directions—his farmboy

Physique butchy one minute

Then catty fucking kunt the next—

Those long moody drives in the

Country down those long
Lonely dirt roads at night—
Me all pins and needles going
Down on him—all that hot
Young animal husbandry
Rearing its ugly fucking head…

Boy Trouble

I knew I was in big trouble—
When he grabbled my ears like
A pair of handle-bars…

I knew I was in big trouble—
When he wormed his big dick
Down my fucking throat…

I knew I was in big trouble—
When he spit on my face
And told me to suck it…

I knew I was in big trouble—
When he shot his wad like a
Helpless spastic harelip kid…

I knew I was in big trouble—
When I wanted it again bad
Which really pleased him…

I knew I was in big trouble—
When he bitch-slapped me once
Turning me on really bad…

I knew I was in big trouble—
When I gave him a rim-job and
He whimpered like a baby….