Compulsion

    with credit-card key
    he enters
    tip-toeing stockinged feet
    pantyhose curled like nude snakes
    lie on the carpet
    he smiles -- gently winding hose
    around his fingers tightly
    he gags mouth with silk
    fists her unconscious
    then ties her arms & legs
    to bedposts

    he pours himself a drink
    dribbling as her eyes open
        her fear
    prodding an aching firmness
    straddling her with waving penis
    he masturbates
    ejaculating in her eyes
    her body surges indignation
    tears mingling with semen
    as she is plunged into
        ripped tissues
    an added shock to her senses

    her blood excites him

    plastic fingers caress her neck
    his heartbeat unified with hers
    he remembers the last woman
    lungs collapsing in rhythm with his orgasm
    the rose left on her vulva

    his fingers meet -- they squeeze slowly
 

The Victim

    she wakens
    in a strait-jacket bed
    stretched like canvas
    exposed to elements raw
    her battered body
    holds his weight
    ripping thrusts
    cause her life to flow
        red
            on the sheets
    she cannot scream
    her mouth is stuffed
    with cloth & fear

    she thinks -- mama i’m cold

    her ears pound
    like sounds of running hooves
    too fast to last

    his penis fills her
    while her eyes are locked
    on the face of a madman

    his spittled smile
    & pressing fingers
    join at her neck

    her brain explodes
 

The Dark Side of Joe Blow


    He wasn’t always this way.
    At least that’s what I heard.
    Why he’s as gentle as a lamb.
    That’s what the neighbors said
            when asked.
    He had a particular flair
            for analysis.
    Taking apart the limbs of insects
    & observing their crippled ambulations
    intrigued him, they said.
    But never in a thousand years
    did they think this singular trait
    would lead him to the edge.
    Remember when they found that woman
            dead for two weeks or so --
    handcuffed to the bed -- spread-eagled
    lying in her excrement & eviscerated
    with her entrails rotting between her legs?
    None of us associated Joe with that
    particular horror. Joe? Nah! Come on!
    But then there was another woman
    then another & another & so we all
    nicknamed the killer, “The Termite.”
    Even Joe joined in the charade
    telling us we had such an imagination.
    But Joe got careless. Yes sir he did.
    He ceased bathing! That’s what.
    He began to smell like the corpses
            he created.
    It’s like he loved the stench of death.
    He carried it with him everywhere.
    His breath smelled like he had eaten
    something foul & we began to put
    together the pieces, (pardon the pun)
    of the killings. You see, the killer
    now removed choice cuts of flesh
    & we all got sick thinking of the times
    we ate at Joe’s -- telling him
    how good the meat was. He always smiled.
    Joe’s gone now & the killings have stopped.
    But we all suffer from nightmares
    & we’re all allergic to meat don’t you know.
 

Sunday Morning in New York City


    Sunday morning
    & the dismal stretch of silence
    covers the city.
    Muted wailings of car horns
    echo through the alleys.
    Throaty conversations of pigeons
    add to the surprise of silence.

    A windowshade goes up
    revealing a face.
    She stills the throb of a hangover
    while staring dully at the stranger
    sleeping in her bed.

    Soberly clad families
    leave their churches behind
    to continue their day.

    People noises slowly growing.

    As the crescendo of sound
    rises in pitch
    a man on a roof
    patiently waits.
    His hand is absently caressing
    the rifle
    on his lap.

Desert Song


    It’s that note
    that C-sharp
                       cutting
                                slicing the air
                like a bird’s cry
    in the desert wilderness.
    A lost note seeking a chord.
    But what note does a bullet make
                                      on impact?
    What is the sound of sand
            under a tank’s tread?
    How high is the C of a missile
    speeding to its desert rendezvous?

    If you lie quiet
        in the desert night
    you’ll hear the scorpion
    edge nearer to your leg
        but you must not move
            even if your brain
                rings with the note
    driving you mad with memories
                                     of jazz on 52nd St.
    & you hear the swishes of brushes
        on a snare drum --
    the drum that follows you in dreams.
    Or you’ll hear the syncopated rimshots
                            & foot cymbals
                      ringing the C-sharp that burns
    as the scorpion crawling up your leg
        & you dare not move
                        even though the night
        has a thousand points of light
    striping the sky with projectile-trails.

    You crouch lower in your hole
        welcome the scorpion’s bite
    the numbness & the note
        slowly dying in your brain.

    Your eyes reflect the dazzled sky
                    brilliant
    with blazing shooting stars
                            on their way to Bagdad.
                    You think of Madonna
            (Like A Virgin)
    in pointed silica cups
    gyrating before you
    & you reach to slide your fingers
               into her oil-rich crotch.
               She is impenetrable --
    a black-robed spider in a black night
    of sirens in Israel & Saudi Arabia.
    It is the night of gas masks
    & PATRIOTS intercepting SCUDS
            in the cold desert sky.
    You see nightbirds speeding
    ejecting phalli before them
    so impact will be an orgasmic BOOM!

    The fires will ignite your loins
    at the sight of Madonna’s flesh.
        The dreaded desert Djinns
    will tremble with gusto at the sight
               of Madonna
                           clutching her crotch
    while she points to an American flag.

    In retrospect
    the final C -- sharp as a needle
        has punctured the desert’s heart
                          but you still live
    & you don’t know whom to thank
    so you praise
               ALLAH   
                AL-KHADIR
                 YAHWEH
                   JESUS
                    BUDDHA
                     MUHAMMAD
               or whatever
               or whoever
        heard your prayers
            through the din
                of a modern crusade.

I Like My Presidents Slick


    I’ve got the “post election blues”
    the “sleazy/goof-balls/ozone-man
    Slick Willie/family values/paranoid Perot
    who do you trust blues.”
    I’ve snipped the umbilical cord from my tv --
    the one that grew & tied us together
    in a three week period as I sat engrossed
    at the grossness of the body politic.
    It was the best offering for my hungry mind
    seeking enlightment of the morning jog --
    romancing the press & the art of side-stepping
    questions from a sex-curious public
    about affairs of body-lust & not? inhaling
    the ole Mary Jane many moons ago.
    It was a 2-step dance of eluding old letters
    Slick should never have written
    about evading Vietnam & his opposition
    manifested in protests in good ole Oxford.
    I watched a billionaire almost purchase
    the presidency & marveled at the
    “Bringing in the sheep” quality of his followers.
    Heck! They were mostly all conservatives
    looking to belong to someone else.
    Quayle had better wear his bright jacket
    in the bush -- his is a done game of running
                           in ‘96.
    Now all I hear is post-analysis of the
    incumbent’s loss & their bitterness bites me
    from a dusty tv screen but their bite is weak
    & I smile at the picture of my Slick Willie
    with his Superman Vice-President jogging
    in their shorts & I fantasize about tripping
    them with my cane to grab a quickie
    with those young ‘uns in the White House.