An Uncertainty of Curtains, a Dispute of Veils


As if this were Egypt,
repeat the adjective
until it becomes a superlative,

hieroglyphicize to
incentivize what you
invent out of time, fill space, treatise this

until as a corpus,
as with that of Hermes
Trismegistus, even your worshipful

bullshit’s fifteenth tract is
a lie, not that his is
at all false or useless, but hermetic,

antique, saccharine suite,
this Penthouse letter-to-
the-editor last-ditch-effort of yours

to fix the stars, pin to
walls that they might not fall,
sin (as you call what I write) scrawled in scripts,


hidden language, fire of
Alexandria rips
through not once or twice, an uncertainty

of curtains, a dispute
of veils to get spirits
to lift leading one on, doubting the calm,

dotting the com, doting
on belief in something
beyond the disappointment of being

surrounded by under-
whelming humans, mortals
in the midst of becoming corpses, mists

of incorporeal
ventriloquists filling
them all with breath enough to serve hidden

purposes, walking in
stumbling throngs to hummed songs
I want to have had no hand in having


written, smitten as I
am with the yet mythic
existence of an exiled audience

missing since my poem’s
beginning, which needs and
seeks no convincing that in our being

different, yes, we have
arrived at what behind
the partition hides best in plain sight yet

eludes perception by
such simple minds, readers,
even you who confuse what I do for

being about or, worse,
even for you, you, too,
contribute, for you give life to ideas

which, by my magic gift,
endowed as I am, blessed,
empowered as an artist, to perform


and express, I erect
in your minds, I bless with
my vessel opening its brittle-lipped

alabaster flesh to
give what light filters through
its pores of quartz shards, pours forth in verse, rhyme

cryptic as it is quite
rhythmic, meant to be heard,
for to see and further to speak what words

I bleed breathe into them
what whispered seed of speech
animates and invigorates, teaches,

enlivens to break cold
poses those statues whose
forms are but silent abodes for poets

to adorn from within,
whether or not, in the
end, you even believe in them, satyrs


and golems, fellow gay
men who follow with fey
wonder what underworld path through filth I

illustrate in spittled
doggerel epics, fits
unbefitting of any ink spilled to

electrify symbols
into witched chaotic
sigils which transfix them to my gist which

none of them ever will
get, and haters alike,
alienated by my dissonance,

my vitriol’s utter
disparagement of an
unimpressive childhood I detest and

refuse to revisit,
agree on a common
thread, a soiled quilt, a brothel-house blanket


rotting rancid under
a broken marriage-bed
abused by guests until it split, better

letters than these cursive
curses would unravel
in fewer lines, in more refined whining

far less bombastic, in
newer New York Minutes,
meaning never fails, only recedes when,

going full Hitchcock, my
planting of red herrings
and MacGuffins actually succeeds

in deceiving into
perceiving what no one
really realizes they have already

perceived, adjectival
the revival of these
incantatory vibes my signs signify.