In my last blog, Oh Gay Can You See,  I promised some awful old poetry from my days working at the 1504 Club in Lorain, Ohio.  Here are four samples from my journal Spittle Aglow for your ogling pleasure.  It’s interesting that I refer to being “caged” and “jailed,” despite not yet having experienced real imprisonment… and being clueless that it would one day play such a huge role in my life.

[I Feel Good! – Jesus Crisis tending bar at the 1504 Club in 1991]

[10 July 1991]

I was a poet
Comfort destroyed me
I was a visionary
Now I am less that a reflection
I was a free flyer
But am now a caged bird
In worldly learning I gained much
Yet nothing
In lust I found pleasure
Yet pain
On the tracks cold steel
Yet hot steam.

* * *

The Doug Trip
[2 November 1991]

Into a dark chasm
Vanessa wanders
Looking for a free cock-tail.
The siren,
Unaware of direction,
Plods forth
Never realizing she’s merely a myth.
Crawl, appalling shrew;
Find another
Hole to haunt
And bury your hungry heavy head.

* * *

[4 June 1992]

The fountain glimmered seductively in the twilight. We were afraid to enter it.  Ripples in the water sent ripples through our consciences (and my consciousness).  The Rasta man approached us, his dreadlocks concealed beneath a hideous blonde wig.  Being a female impersonator (don’t ever let him hear you say ‘drag queen’), he insisted we refer to him as Miss Jamaica.  I (and later you) obliged.  He (should I say ‘she’?) encouraged us to go slowly.  We removed our shoes and I my socks (you wore none) and went nearer.  The pool still glimmered, yet seemed no longer to be of water, but blood.  Undaunted, and confident Miss Jamaica would not lead us astray, we stepped in.  The thick, warm liquid soothed our aching feet and sent a vertigo to our heads.  Soon (was it a hallucination or reality?), we were neither any longer at the fountain nor in the presence of the Rasta man.

Where were we?

* * *

[2 November 1991]

Asinine hordes
Beg for my affection, attention,
Each an enemy to himself, a
Friend to all, people lick the
Glue from my stamp; I
Have no postage,
I cannot be mailed; why am I
Kill me first;
Never be always confined…
Over and against the ceaseless din of this club’s
Pretentious, promiscuous
Queens, I
Rage, yet find no
Solace, only
Temporary, fading stimulation…
Under the
Veil of once
Well-watered foliage, I dehydrate, wither, an
X marking where this treasure once laid…
You see it no more; I am gone; two, one,