My Favorite Faulkner

We’ll meet in Mississippi. Just name the spot.
What about Biloxi, Clarksdale, or what would you say
to somewhere in Yoknapatawpha County, described to me
as a leper colony with a Ferris wheel, due to the opening
(not so grand) of the new fairgrounds, home to the Pippin,
a reassembled wooden roller coaster that was taken apart
and shipped from Nebraska, following the death of a 58-year-old
woman who was thrown from her seat. Whatever else it may
be, it is not surreal. It could just as well be real.

I’m looking for a little action. But as given as I am to fantasies
of total servitude, I had to turn down an offer to be walked
through the streets of downtown Jefferson attached to an anal leash.
My Master insisted, after having me run around buying spandex
unmentionables, that I let him insert an inflatable dildo
and take me for a walk, held by a retractable plastic lead. I agreed
to wear a muzzle and a plastic nose that makes me look like a Cocker
Spaniel. Bow the fuck wow. Why the hell people prefer cats I can’t

I am SIP (staying in place). I have prostate cancer, but it isn’t fatal
this week. I am aware that many assume I deserve it. I am more
concerned about the pandemic, of course. I am following the news
closely. The public library has opened on a limited basis and I am
full of books that keep me happy. Gaining weight and distrustful
of the public. I am watching this election like a hawk. I support
Biden. He is full of piss and vinegar. At 80, he still eats Captain
Crunch. His insistence on swimming in the nude in front of the Secret
Service made me a believer.

So, you are on all fours. It is the sidewalk and there is no carpeting.
You’ve seen the shiny plastic body suits. My Master prefers me au
natural, with my ass hanging out. He shoves a rainbow-colored pony
tail up there when we are home; otherwise, I take the dildo and he
takes the reins. He does all the talking like so many spouses. I rub
my face against his shins. If I am lucky, he will kick me. Children
are not allowed to touch me, which, believe me, is a relief. I much
prefer the mask of a Cocker to that of a Bull Dog. It changes one’s
disposition. I fit the Cocker, which is a dumb animal.

I am not into aggression. This is the point. I have a friend who
dresses like a Doberman Pincher. It’s perfect. He is primed
to attack. His Master stands with his foot on his paw. When not
stepping on his limbs, he stands on his cock. He likes to be
mistreated. He is all about being agitated and harassed. He looked
for years for the right sort of fellow. His Master is named Larry.
He drives a pick-up and makes Daphne ride in the back, rain
or shine. When in costume, he is called Lightning. And the thing
is this: who knows what drives the human heart?


We are shutting down. I can feel it.
If you don’t, it may be due to your age.
If you are under 40, you may not know
what it feels like to be free. Our young
are being trained how to think and what to say—
how to speak, I should say, how to avoid hurting feelings,
I might add, especially their own. This, too,
was how my grandmother’s generation was taught.

This art of avoidance, this training in kindness,
was all the rage in the 19th century, along with petticoats.
Girls today demand the manners if not the underpants.
It’s all too familiar to the Modernists who dropped it.
The Puritans are back with vengeance. They want a hold
on the arts. Back then, ladies were dainty—ask Gertrude Stein—
and wanted their men dainty, too, like little Lord Fauntleroy,
a gentle soul in curls and a shiny frock.

We’re reverting to this atmosphere. One mustn’t say
the wrong thing; mustn’t hurt mommy’s feelings.
Girls are delicate and break easily. They are better off
batting their eyelashes and smiling brightly than telling
their enemies to fuck off. They learn to carry a sugar-coated
dagger in their kimono. Cheerleaders carry pom-poms to hide
their weapons. They bathe in organic rose water but are
told to sip their green tea in silence.

Anguish is hidden behind gentility.
There’ll be no more letting one’s hair down.
No more telling people off. No more sharing,
no more feedback; it’s just input from here on out—
input perfumed like a hair salon
or bordello in San Francisco in 1910,
the full-treatment demanded by silent film stars,
the sort of shit Ellen DeGeneres has to have.

The truth looks and sounds like a barking Chihuahua
waiting for its master. A tiny mutt decorated in a giant
ribbon, and woolen nappies wrapped around its ass.
Not a guard dog but a companion to someone with blue
hair and a Cadillac limousine. In short, the little old lady
from Pasadena holds the line. Or perhaps a billionaire rapper
in a gold lamé jump suit, with diamond dust sprinkled
on his toenails.

Along with cosmopolitanism come the lies.
People don’t smoke but swallow ashtrays, whole.
People don’t have butts but covet their neighbor’s derriere.
The key is to remove one’s enemy’s tongue without drawing blood.
It’s a silent coup. Men who defecate in the garden are called animals,
but those with personal chefs are treasured human beings. They try
so hard to convince us it has something to do with class. LOL.
The test is a scrotum that looks like a pouch for rare coins.

Dirty Harry

I slept with Harry Belafonte last night.
Yes, he is 83.
Don’t be unkind.
He smelled like an old rag but I loved
his passion.
He dick was as limp as Play-Doh but his
tongue was on fire.

He spoke to me in French. I didn’t understand
a word.
His wife offered to translate.
He slapped me when I called him honey.
I won’t repeat what he called me.
He made me crawl around on all fours.
Oink, Oink. Quack, Quack. Moo, Moo.

We played barnyard animals. He was Farmer Brown.
I got worried when he demanded four eggs.
He said, “You are the chicken and I’m the fox.”
We ran around the room.
This made his wife laugh.
He said when he caught me, he would wring my neck.
She stopped laughing when I produced four eggs.

Old McDonald had a farm.
Being big doesn’t help when you’re limp.
The body sags in odd spots. Even his nipples shriveled.
His farts were sweet but his breath was foul.
Old McDonald tried to cheat me.
I walked out when his wife tried to kiss me.

According to our agreement, I was supposed to be
paid by the hour. I stayed three, but he tried to pay
me for two. I took the money and shit on the floor.
I told Buzz, my guardian. He taught me the ways of Serbia.
He drove an old Datsun. He kept a leather-bound shaft
up his ass. He dropped in on Mr. and Mrs. Belafonte.
He dressed up like an English fox-hunter, all in red.

That’s the end of the story.
Tomorrow I have an appointment with Mary.
Mary had a little lamb. She wants me to have barnyard
sex, too. I’m to dress all in orange and promise not to speak.
All she asks is that I shave my beard. She’ll pay extra
if I bring firecrackers. At first, I refused. What changed my mind,
was her offer to allow me to decide where to place them.

Humpty Dumpty

The young, rich and poor, think
Nintendo is superior to the Sistine Chapel.
They admire Steve Jobs more than Michelangelo.
If not that, then they are judged equally as artists,
as creative forces. People’s idea of culture consists of
computer games and videos. In China, the favorite film of the
15 to 20 crowd is Roman Holiday with Audrey Hepburn.

In America, the young esteem Rogue Nation and Harry
Potter as works of cinematic art, and not a soul says otherwise.
The kids here watch porno in college and want to get rich.
From their point of view, there isn’t anything of value
that isn’t on Google or YouTube. Their answer to art is to take
a dick pic or a selfie with their mouths full of cherries.

Given the choice, which would you prefer,
a can of chicken noodle or a painting of Campbell’s Soup?
Pop art drives people from the museums. Pop music
hasn’t helped. Who goes to the symphony to listen to
Pop Goes the Weasel? At a basic level, people get tired of calling
dreck, art. Star Wars killed film-going.
The cartoonists have taken over; the banks own the studios.
People demand shag carpeting in their houses,
but they don’t want pictures of it on their walls.
It’s the feel that helps people relax, not the image.
That’s where pop art gets it wrong.

There can be no art without skill. Without training and powers of
endurance, nobody can learn to throw a pot. The kids can bang a drum
or bang each other, but the oboe takes years of practice.
We promote creativity but not obedience. There is no
discipline except on the football field where the coaches kick the
idiots off the team. The so-called artists are praised to the sky even
when they skip rehearsal. Fat girls fight to join the ballet. Kids
without lips want to play trumpet. Something has to give. Some
one has to say no. We do need creativity but we also need tyrants.
Monster geniuses who have no patience. Prima donnas, tantrum throwers—
not sensitivity trainers—are what’s needed. Bring back the Gods.
Otherwise, the arts will vanish and in their place we’ll have docile
people, like the Swiss, who after hundreds of years of contentment
invented clocks with punctual cocks that sing.

Glass Ceiling

Anya: she’s a cheerleader for the downtrodden.
I know because she’s ambitious.
The higher she wants to go, the more she cares.
As she fills out applications, you can hear her crying.

Oh, Anya, how she weeps for the poor.
She wails for the disabled. She loves
above all else to wag her finger. She prides
herself on her outrage, she thrives on indignation.

What Anya craves is power. She longs to join
Mothers of the Disabled. After distributing
pamphlets to the masses, she’ll drink toilet water.
She’s on the same wave length as the desperate.
She hangs a portrait of Mother Teresa over her bed.

What the fuck, she wants to be President.
She’s determined to get that promotion,
enough to hug a leper, but first she’ll read
to the blind. She’ll distribute clothing to the homeless.
She wants street cred; it’s the only way to the top.
She wants to be compared to her idol, Lady Di.

Not so long ago, the poor piano player was told
to try drums. Today the little girl is told to keep playing.
Anya has seen to that. The fat girl is encouraged
to join the ballet. The not so very bright boy is sent to law school.
This is the world she hopes to dominate.
The triumph of empathy is the next big thing.

There’ll be no stopping her. There are billions to be made off
mediocrity, a thousand times more than what’s been
made off talent. The triumph of failure. She’s tapped
into the voice of despair. Today the losers are on the move.
Everyone gets in. They’ll get a certificate for breathing,
a degree for trying.

They’ll attend graduate school on Skype from prison.
No one gets left behind. By the year 2029, 89% of the
American people will have a Ph.D. Now that Anya’s
President everyone on Earth can attend Harvard; they’ll
learn to turn their despair into dread, like Franz Kafka.
The American dream is fulfilled; everyone’s a fool.

Presidential Surveys

Our once great Republic is beginning to rupture, resembling something
once familiar to the likes of Tacitus and the Roman Emperor.
Presidents seem to need the looks of a matinee idol to be elected to office;
Ever since the likes of William Howard Taft and Grover Cleveland,
why has it been necessary for the President to have the profile of John F. Kennedy?

How did tall and elegant become the sole criteria for political power?
Bunny Mellon, it was said, gave millions to John Edwards because
of his kisser. Funny Bunny barely flinched when pretty boy fizzled.
Women, evidently, once had fantasies of going to bed with Clinton;
and more recently with Obama. Time to ask the Wall Street Journal?

Only Wilt Chamberlain had the chance to bed as many
women as President Obama. How is it we’ve come to desire
a President with a magnificent body over one with a great mind?
Finding the answer to this might be a job for the Bill &
Melinda Gates Foundation.

Is it possible that the President’s performance in bed is rated higher
than an ability to balance the books? The President of the United States
as nothing more than a piece of meat? After all, did French women want
to sleep with Charles de Gaulle? Surely the Rand Corporation should get
to the bottom of this.

It can’t be true that it has come to this. Clinton, Reagan, and
Obama: three tall men are said to have had the ability to make
the ladies swoon. They passed them their numbers. One wonders
what gay men might think. Do they want to sleep with the President?
Maybe the Ford Foundation could conduct a survey.

Why not strip them and put them in a centerfold? Instead of voting
hope and change, we’ll celebrate Presidential chests and shoulders.
Men and women once clambered to shake a President’s hand; now they
dream of spending the night in the Lincoln bedroom with him. What of
Gorbachev or Mandela? What about Kamala Harris?

Or would the fantasy be to fuck him? Has the US President been turned
into nothing more than a porn star? If so, how in the world did it come
to this? America needs to take a poll, conduct a survey of our countrymen.
Is it time to establish a blue-ribbon committee headed by Henry Kissinger
to ask the American people about their depravity?