Nothing if not
complex, this Electra,
but whose?
Sophocles'? Euripedes'?
O'Neill's? Giraudoux's?
or the daughter of
a wise and gentle merchant
who told his child
when she was twelve,
with hair as black
as mourning, "I know
you love me,
but you really must
find someone else."
New Orleans Has Collapsed
In appreciation of Frank O’Hara
I was watching the hurricane news
thinking it’s bad but it’s not as bad
as they thought when all of a sudden
it was worse why?? the levees broke
and the water poured through the sexy sweet
City of New Orleans through
cemeteries and jazz
Zydeco and oysters
booze and Blues
balconies and Brennan’s
Black and White
Congregation Named Desire
Queen of the River Excess
did the God of those Righteous Boys
now running
the U.S. of A.
visit this flood upon your sensuous
banks No Noah in these boys’ plans
Oh New Orleans I love you get up!
"Scatology Series,”
Marek calls the erotic
sculptures he invites me to see
at the gallery where I run
into the man
who'd once been my life,
who'd introduced me to Marek;
"Scatology Series," to which I bring
another man, whom I met through
another man, who has twice been my lover,
and friend to both men I've already mentioned,
but not to Marek, whose wife is here
and helped with the opening of "Scatology Series,"
although they're living apart;
and I gaze at the objects
Marek has sculpted, sensuous urinals
in purest white porcelain, mounted
on steel, and I learn
that the man who'd once been my life
will be married in autumn,
(although this didn't happen),
and I leave with the man
whom I brought to the gallery
who will soon have to leave
to dine with the son of the woman
who has left him for the third time.
RED
Don't wear it
said the mother—It
makes you look
Italian.
Wear it
said the Irish lover—It
looks terrific
on you.
Won't have it
in the house
said the friend—It
reminds me
of my husband
who loved
Lipstick Silk
Maraschino Geranium
Tomato Lobster
Fire Radish
Toenail Polish Blood.
Two Days After
| Finally, some sun. From my fire escape terrace, I look out on another roof— astro-turfed, lounge-chaired, picnic-tabled, planted— see the sculptor spray painting his two rectangular shapes black. | Then, on the phone from her farm on the west coast of England, Carol tells me her daughter was all dressed for her first Disco Night at school, wearing the glitter tee shirt she’d wanted, when Carol realized the New York skyline, the two towers on her daughter’s tiny breasts. |
WHEN THEY WERE KINGS
"Float like a butterfly,
Sting like a bee,"
said Muhammad Ali.
"Think Yiddish,
Act British,"
said Daddy.
He loved Ali
when Ali was Cassius
Clay, and afterwards,
when he wasn't.
My gentleman immigrant father
with silk ties from Sulka's
of' Park Avenue, and hand-blocked hats
from Cavanagh's,
knew style when he saw it.
So I watched Ali
in his ring and out,
and watched my father
say "good morning"
to every employee
before he sat down
at his desk.
When the prediction came
from The Rumble In The Jungle
from the fetisheur in Zaire:
"A Woman With Trembling Hands
Would Somehow Get To Forman,"
my father already had them.
Ali went for
the Rope-A-Dope;
my family fought
about dosages of L-dopa.
Now Ali fights
my father's battle of the trembling
hands and tongue; lucky
he rehearsed with Foreman:
"I've wrestled with an alligator
for this fight."
Daddy is silent, but
they're both right.
Transfiguration Begins At Home
The "Cinderella Staircase" divided upstairs
from downstairs its curves of elegance
branded early on the child who turned it
into a story over and over again
The person who started at the top was
never the person who reached the bottom
The one who climbed it from the bottom was
always different at the top Cinderella
could turn into a princess A prince could
turn into a frog Before a father could
descend it with a daughter on his arm
to give her away in marriage a daughter
would ascend it with a father on her arm
to give him away to silence Anything
is possible
