The Ancient Greeks Knew This

Young men without women 

live in a cracked and faded rooming house

at the corner of Lehigh Street 

and University Drive.

A bare, wrought-iron porch straddles the face 

of the house, 

furnished with a derelict sofa.  

The men grind their backs into the sofa springs,
purse their lips on beer bottles and cigarettes.

The bottles sucked dry 

then smashed against the pavement below.

Packaged meats are slapped onto a flaming grill, 

split and blistered, 

then devoured with ferocious appetites 

while disinterested young women 

stop along the sidewalk 

so their dogs may shit on the unkempt lawn.

The men eyeball the women 

and joke about what they'd like to do to them,
and their dogs.  

By afternoon, 

blood boils from the heat of the day, 

evoking raucous collegiate chants 

and uproarious feats of strength.  

They spar like wrestlers in the arena—

barefoot and bellicose, 

stripped to their blue jeans. 

Sweaty bodies entwine in ritual combat, 

punctuated by breathless displays 

of virile comradery:

        the chest bump, 

        the bear hug, 

        the double high five.

To escape their awkwardness, 

the men pour whiskey shots 

and embellish tales of sexual conquest 

until the long shadow of fatigue 

forces a reluctant surrender.

They retreat, each to his solitary space.  

And it's a stark, lonely place, that old house, 

beneath the cover of midnight 

when desperate hands slick with desire 

are drawn under soiled sheets 

and hot, August winds shake the rotting timber 

long stood between erotic passions 

yearning to be released 

and fraternal pleasures 

they dare not name.

On Dropping Out of College

Bukowski and I are trading punches again.
He says I jab like a schoolgirl.

"See Boccaccio," he tells me.  

"See Jeffers, Fante, Céline . . . 

and get a job, kid."

Anaïs Nin telegrams from Paris.
She's had it with Henry and his whores.

"He's just a child," she writes, 

"and so are you."

She sees what others carefully conceal.

I've been mainlining William Burroughs

like a shameless junkie.

His hipster cynicism floods the bloodstream

with antipathy for Freud's theories

on psychosexual development:  

        The Ego and the Id,

        The Interpretation of Dreams.

I have recorded my dreams 

in which Hemingway is a frequent visitor.

He insists I keep my elbows down and in,
else that scoundrel, Dostoyevsky,
will sucker-punch me in the groin.

I have looked forward 

to meeting Nietzsche and Rimbaud, 

but the semester is beginning
and I am required to spend much time
with Wordsworth, 

Melville, 

and Descartes—

the very same sons of bitches
Mark Twain cautioned 

not to let interfere 

with my education.

**First published in Di-Verse-City anthology