Monday, September 14, 2015


Bill Kasper, known as the Birdman, digging through the piles of his eclectic inventory at Rainbow Music on First Avenue in the East Village in New York City   
 Credit Richard Perry/The New York Times



J O H N   W I E N E R S
W A L L A C E   B E R M A N

Memories of You

Blown the fags in Central Park,
one after another, after midnight
in the snow; on park benches —
under the Japanese Pavilion.

Chased out of Bryant Park,
from behind the monument,
by a cop,with a big black buck.
I fingered his wedding ring
as I blew him. Fled to Boston

and the Esplanade where I was fucked
on the overpass by a student
while hundreds of cars raced by
below, unknowing of our ecstasy?

Returned to Bowery, where I found no one
except one man's hardon
in a doorway, facing the street

Thought of San Francisco, and Union Square,
nothing there and the park on top pf Nob Hill,
where I cruised all dawn until finally
a man came out and took me up the backstairs
of the Bachelor's Club and blew me in the bathroom,
I think, locked. In my self? and what use

of this, this purgation of senses. Back to Boston,
jerking off on trains, I gotta stop taking
that wheat germ oil; find a negro at poetry reading
and he fuck me in the "skyscraper" over Third Avenue.

Back to trees of Boston and Public Garden,
where I blew men all night long.
The stain is still on my face. How can I
face my brother, who first seduced me —
and my other brother, who I seduced —
and my mother and sister who prays for us all.

Now to Buffalo, where I do nothing —
but jerk off and think of Charles.
Bob Wilson blowing 78 men one weekend
on Fire Island where they serve an Olson martini.

Now back to New York and The Turkish Baths
which I find no fun, tho Frank O' Hara does,
and Allen Ginsberg sits in his white pajamas
and dreams of men as I do — and thinks of fame
at least used to but doesn't have to anymore,
as he is it. And I see what style this has degenerated into,

a vain pulling of my own prick and those of others.
When it was supposed to be a verbal blowjob of a poem.
And I have known women, too, laid beside them in the dawn —
but never balled them. Tho I want to.

Would some woman come up and give me enough of her flesh
so I could ball her and pretend she was a man,
For how else could I do it? For I have a woman's
mind in a man's body, and it would be lesbianism
otherwise, and it is a curse.

Unless some woman see and relieve me of this misery.


For I will go to Spoleto and blow them there,
travel back to San Francisco and blow them there,
"get fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists"
would it were so; cruise Boston streets again
with Billy Donahue, pretend it is all peaches and cream
while inwardly I scream and dream of the day
when I will be free
to marry
and breed more children
so I can seduce them
and they be seduced by
saintly motorcyclists in the dawn.


J O H N   W I E N E R S
selected poems
edited by Joshua Beckman,  CA Conrad, Robert Dewhurst
W A V E   B O O K S