Don says:
"This poem was written about 20 years ago. It is about a time when I
lived in Greenwich Village, hard by the west side docks."
In Search of Something
We had been drinking.
It was late and boring.
An old Queen cruised,
talking sass hand on hip
back in the days when
old Queens cruised
talking sass hand on hip.
We had been drinking.
You could taste violence:
carefully, as you taste
the cutting edge of a butcher knife.
We had been drinking
then somehow agreed
with the old Queen
to his apartment dark and dirty
with one lamp fringed shade.
We scorned and drank
shouting jokes
that weren't funny,
shouting them over and over,
neck veins snaking out.
The old Queen crawled,
said love wasn't to be laughed at.
Dog-sniffed our stocking feet
masturbating while we giggled,
demanding money he didn't have.
In the kitchen at a gas stove
he heated hot pink
a potato masher.
The old Queen stood
with his back to us
making fists, shoulders
up near ears, trembling,
shuddering, pants flopped
around ankles, underwear
skinned down.
A flabbing ass disgraced,
pimpled,
waffle scarred.
The old Queen squeaking,
"Do it, do it, please."
We did it. Branding.
Held it home as he jumped,
screaming, falling, pants
tripping him. Lay with eyes
fluttered closed. Smell
of something scorched.
"Barbecue," someone said.
Disgusted, tossing the masher
in a sink full of food swirled dishes,
we left, calling back, "Cattle fag,"
laughing thumping down the stairs.
Then, when I got drunk again,
I'd try to find him,
wanting to tell him
it was because we were drinking.
It went on every time I drank
which was most every night.
I never saw him again.