MECCA CONFUSA: THE T-SHIRT POEM
(from “Xoeteox: the infinite word object” Wave Books)
Allen Ginsberg, I have worn you on my back
in cafe's, on the flatlands, in a threesome
with a half-stranger, whose pregnant pause stretched out
across the microcosmic corn flake of America's crooked twaddle,
your fellatious weight wigged on the temporary
munch-stains of mop-headed troubadours,
Alan Ginsberg, I wore your t-shirt with your poem
for a week in the Mediterranean heat, I was on vacation
my luggage had been stolen, I was left wearing you on my back
unshowered, unshaved, I walked your stink
up and down those pueblo streets, looking for a remnant
of magna-cathartic putrefaction in the gutless odor of my
other t-shirts, I never washed you, too
embarrassed to reveal my scarecrow's chest
to the letters forming your exuberantly Hellenic rupture,
knowing you would have enjoyed any nipple within rim shot of
avalanche or underarm...with due respect...I endured
the sweaty lung of your mass mugged by lonely verbs, each wrinkle
a soiled verse, Allan Ginsberg, I have already written a poem, years ago,
about you, our first encounter, a peacock's tail, all sainthood sanctified
in musk and love, arising through oxidation within the cloth of our unwashed souls,
you on my back, trailing the shadow of a colorless mirror-faction by clinging
to a skinny watery funk of Puerto Rican material, far from home I exorcised
the gypsy brilliance out of your hippy-dyed tongue, earthly toad, and lay bleeding,
the green fusion of our unrequited bromance at the hooves of the peasant paparazzi,
Allan Ginsberg, I wore you for one week, and never felt your tincture
on the seemingly ghosted episode, of our mutual longing for circular oneness,
emerged in the copulating dissolution, of your entrailed alchemy < hudda hudda
bow bow hatsa cuoq hatsa cuoq tantric autocomaaaaaaa > a groped cigarette
smoked, from the tenements of Eisenhower's hairless nubbin
to Whitman's follicular sway of mercuric synergy, head for tail, night
for day, dogged in dualistic wet spot, moving with erectable awe
over the pigsters of your shocking grey pubis,
Allan Ginsberg I have worn you on my back and never felt
the galactic peck of your molten po prick the rear
of America's Telemundo bypass, nor the equation of your
empatheticized mound, rip out malls and ipods from the foreign press
while wrapping your umbilical offerings across a Nintendo's worth
of whack jobs, as they beat the spores of industry into one more foreskin to cut you free,
it has now been one week of your grime, ripening down my flesh, my huge potential
immersed in the bowels of your delicate reminders, transforming meditation
from man to monk, with the iridescent wean of your burning red vibra-toot
< consciousness liquidator borealis calibrator inbreath inbreath inbreath wasabiiiiii >
Allan Ginsberg your stitch count was higher, I threw away my Emily Dickinson
bed sheets, my Christian Bök umlauts and my Jack Kerouac fishnets, the day
they put my mug on Facebook and told me who I was, but I kept you because
you were made better, Allan Ginsberg t-shirt you stood the test of time, a week's worth
of my vagrant meandering, cloaked in mandalas of sweat, in the confusion
of my tattered wolves, in a mass of unformed unicorns, and always you remained
a size too large to shrink.
Edwin Torres' books include; "Ameriscopia" (University of Arizona Press) and most recently, "Xoeteox: the infinite word object" (Wave Books). He is also editor of, "The Body In Language: An Anthology," forthcoming from Counterpath Press.