POEM: Forty-nine Graves

If you want to know whether guns kill people
or whether people kill people
if you want to know whether words break bones
or if only sticks and stones can do that
if you want to know what happens
when a word like “faggot” puts bullets
like stones in a gun like a stick
and a word like “dyke” makes the gun erupt
like a super-volcano with five thousand years
of hatred, disgust, condemnation
if you want to know whether homophobia kills
whether fear of The Other really has power
there are forty-nine graves in Orlando,
Florida that weren’t there a week ago
that will answer your questions
with their silence.

(With thanks to Richard on Tumblr. Originally posted on Antinous for Everybody, 6/25/2016)

“I aten’t dead” (wait, have I quoted that before?)

May the Force be with you, as I write to you on this Star Wars Day. *waits for the appropriate liturgical response*

First of all, no, I aten’t dead. I am alive, and determined to resurrect my writing, this blog, and my Patreon. (Remember my Patreon?)
Second, with those goals in mind, I am pleased to offer a new reward to current and new Patreon subscribers who pledge ten dollars or more per month: A PDF version of my mythfic “A distinguished visitor from the north”, slightly revised and edited with the help of my friend Sarah Loch, and gorgeously illustrated by Li Oesterberg, a comics artist I have been pleased to follow on Tumblr for a couple of years.
Third, I’ll now be offering another new reward to subscribers who pledge $25 or more: The chance to read works in progress. Right now, the major work I have in progress that I’d like to offer to readers is a sequel to “A distinguished visitor from the north”, tentatively entitled “A leisurely cruise through the stars”. This story, which picks up the tale when Antinous is asked to retrieve the goddess Melinoe from the realm of her foster-mother Hel and bring her home to her parents, was previously available on my blog Antinous for Everybody . It is no longer available there. I have made those entries private; from now on, installments of this work in progress will only be available at Patreon, at the $25 level and higher, until the story is complete.
And as soon as I get my first subscriber at that level, I will begin to re-post the existing installments, starting with one post per month. Having subscribers that I know want to read this story will, I hope, be a strong motivator for me to work on it!
In the meantime, I resolve to post something here once a week, at least, for the foreseeable future.

If you like my writing, support it! Subscribe at Patreon! Tell your friends! Thanks, dear readers, and be well.

POEM: Protest March

Hosanna to the Son of David
Blessed is he who comes in the Name of the Lord

Cut the branches
Go out and cut the branches
Willow and pussywillow
Palm and pine tree
Lulav and thyrsus and bunches of daffodils
It’s time for a protest march

The children of the Hebrews
spread in the way their garments and
cried out, saying

Black lives matter
Trans lives matter
Six million Jews in the ovens of Hitler
Black boys and men on the streets of America

Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord
Blessed are those who march in the name of justice
in the name of Jesus, in the name of King,
in the name of Attis, in the name of Dionysus,
in the name of Antinous
Hosanna in the highest

Cut back the flowers
that are just now sprouting
cut back the new shoots on the old trees
make signs, wear hats, wave rainbow flags
blessed is the one who comes in peace,
riding on an ass and not on a stallion
riding on a donkey and not in a chariot
riding on an ass and not in a tank
Hosanna in the highest

The young man dies and the old ones go on
The King of Peace dies and the warmakers live
The beautiful youth dies and his blood becomes flowers
the black boys die and their blood flows in the streets
Poison flows out of the faucets of Flint
Where is the clean water out of the temple?
Where is the city that is at unity with itself?

Hosanna to the Son of David
Jesus went into the city
and threw out the moneychangers from the Temple
the buyers and sellers, the currency exchangers,
the dealers in doves, the gougers of prices
do you think that had nothing to do
with why they killed him?
Break out the palms and sing hosanna
This is a protest march

FLASHBACK: Glykonalia

On this day, the serpent’s day, the Glykonalia, let us give praise to Glykon.
If you are mad, Glykon will bring you sanity.
If you are sane, Glykon will drive you mad.
If you are mentally ill, Glykon offers healing.
If you believe you are well, and that your view is the only correct view,
Glykon will derange your mind.
If your back is stiff, Glykon’s dance will help you to loosen.
If you are a spineless idiot, Glykon will put some backbone into you.
If you have the plague, Glykon’s embrace will cure you.
If you are afraid of contagion, Glykon’s sweet bite will rot your bones.
If you fear the snake, you will never know yourself.
If you fear yourself, you will never dance with Glykon.
Son of Asklepios, son of Apollo, son of Zeus,
honor the green-scaled, golden-haired one,
the laughing snake deity, the sock puppet that moves on its own.
Honor Glykon, sweetest of serpents,
honor him with sweets and laughter,
and you will be well.

FLASHBACK: “Snake Discourse”

prevue3Everybody wants to talk about snakes. Nobody wants to talk about penises.

No, wait.

Nobody wants to talk about snakes. Everybody wants to talk about penises.

A cute picture of a snake wearing a tiny hat is an offense to the patriarchy. Especially if the hat is a pimp hat.

What do snakes and pimps have to do with one another?

The snake is a symbol of the penis. But perhaps the penis is just a symbol of the snake?

The penis of the human male has no bones. This is an oddity in the animal kingdom. All of that proud towering masculinity is basically just hydraulic pressure.

Something’s gonna blow.

There are thirty-three vertebrae in the human spine, divided into four regions: Cervical, thoracic, lumbar, and sacral. The coccygeal doesn’t count.

There are between two hundred and four hundred vertebrae in the body of a snake. A human being is a featherless biped, a plucked chicken, one-sixth of a small snake crowned with a ridiculous wig.

All the prophets of Glykon wear ridiculous wigs. Look at David Bowie. Look at Hedwig.

A man who can swivel his hips like a snake is not worrying about the size of his penis. However, Glykon can be propitiated for penis enlargement. Act now, ophidians are waiting to take your call.

Penises are problematic. Snakes are not problematic. Snakes are sneks or noodles. The phallus is a rampant destroyer, a divine mushroom, a raging god, an intoxicant, a beast with a mind of its own.

The penis is a bishop in a turtleneck, a fireman in his hat, a divine mushroom, the gods’ joke on humankind. The snake is a prophet. Tune into the Glykon Puppet Hour and laugh along with Glykon and friends!

This concludes the Snake Discourse.

(Originally published on Antinous for Everybody for Glykonalia 2016)

FLASHBACK: Poem, “Resurrection”

I am thinking about dead boys this time of year,
how the earth softens and little pieces of them rise up,
fingers and toes, hairs and phalluses,
the curl of the hyacinth petal, the thrust of the crocus,
the daffodil nodding to itself, the rampant white lilies.
Hyacinth and Narcissus, Attis and Crocus,
Jesus, too, though he was a man grown,
bits and pieces of bread and wine,
the monstrous white lilies brought from the hothouse
to choke church choirs with their pollen.
The fathers beat their breasts and the women keen,
wailing and moaning, tearing their hair,
walking up and down and watering the greedy earth
with tears, saying those names: Attis, Adonis,
Hyacinth, Crocus, Jesus, Trayvon, Michael, Tamir,
Narcissus, Eric, all those boys ploughed under.
But they come up again, they come shooting up,
as the sun rises higher and the women hoe the rows,
and Antinous, that beautiful boy, who killed the boar
that hunted him, comes with his spear and holds out
a hand, rise up, Attis, brother, rise up, Adonis, come on,
Hyacinth and Crocus, Trayvon and Tamir, take my hand,
get up, here’s Jesus, here we are, get up, boys,
it’s time to rise up, they’re waiting for us.