Tag Archives: Wilcox

My, How Rich Your Text Is

jack-susanne
Living With Jack
samplex

Leave the bastard. Kick him out into the fruity liaisons of territories still in contention. That seems to be all Jack can produce of himself. Man I grieve knowing all the potential Jack holds in his little finger, and could possibly manage into greatness, yet he continues to fuck up. You can imagine how stunned I was, the first time we ever met, when he remarked out of the blue in priceless gravity that he wished he could be like me...

I now suppose he was right, once upon a time. I am me, he ain't.

That was some strong detail you suffered, dahling. Jack is a real ass, I'm sorry. Frankly I love you, not him, although Gene Wilcox and I were just watching Jack coordinate a video shoot we made back in the day, blah blah...and still recognize the power of Jack's presence...

I wish I could add more to the record but I'm not only tired, I'm on the tail end of an 18 hour drunk. Gene, who thinks, argues thinking he is, but ultimately agrees that I, not he, is the baby Jesus, whatever that means, is still here passed out on the couch...

GT

Kluck

My street name is Gabriel Thy,
and I am the last of that sorry generation
which begat muster hanging from a tree.
If I got to choose I'd aim to be a diamond needle
or a tadpole analyzing the science of absorption.

"I believe in Glenn. I believe in what he's trying to do."
(Helen Miller of her husband)
But beyond sanitized analytical crumbs, I require
two minutes of God talk, said a child from Africa
writing to ask the hand of Dana Plato
in marriage. It looks like they shot
the goose. There goes the neighborhood, and yet
at bottom, she was overly sensitive,
ripe to a sense of failure and doubting the bet
forcing her to dither a test of her courage.

To the east there appeared an unsightly
contagion of broad punk buildings,
loathsome in their uniform demands and raiment. Scars
of unmanicured lawns and maimed rose bushes
perpetuated the myth that all landscapes
are, if not created equal in the eyes
of the juke box next to a young woman,
return to the scion-infested fuss upon
which they were erected.

Equation Needed: a child dies, goes to heaven
almost automatically. Most adults go straight
to hell for chasing choices in a very uncatholic fashion.
                                 The dilemma, the devious business
of growing old, more sinful,
what percentage, no,
what are the odds that child A will reach full maturity,
even middle age, and still retain the gift of God?
Child B?
Child C?

"Sounds like a John Candy flick," smiled Charlemagne,
wet between the ears. Old McDonnell Douglas
and his flying machine is dying with the words
"only two elephants to a bunk." He used
to be a traveling preacher, traveling on fish sticks,
a golden calf muscle, a disposable literary
technique reeking of the after-effects of a gorgeous
feast, crapping in the diaper of the damned.
Some friend you are, with your ceiling fan
broken. "Vile Geezers, Ode to Benny Hill!"
snaps Wilcox, the Greek exhibit
stranded with the white girl in yellow
pumps on the hood of some candy blue
'76 Camaro LT, questionably butch
as racy as the car, buckles, and tires.

The Perpetual Fan says, "I sweat. I am nano nano
perspiration machine. I eat sweat eating
vanilla ice cream, and the psychic
rendering of memory, one man per invasion,
because whatever choices you make are bound
to become wrong choices after a while,
over and over. Curious bump on the back of the head
no matter whom she slept with because the global anatomy
sounds like a broken record never to fade from the language
any more than hitching your wagon to a falling star,
an exploding star, a star with mammories,
fairy dust wits, a star collapsed in upon itself
like a furious black hole Momma

everybody née everything reminds me of somebody.

[ 1995, Washington DC ]