The handwritten notation along the right side of this sheet reads: If I lose all my hair, will you still care… 1985 Tom Taylor The Codex 
Thoss W. Taylor / Dalton Trumbo 1970
dalton trumbo was my friend
i was privy
to the scrapbox
of this feisty
maverick
american icon
a fellow jouster
of quick humor
sunday afternoons
beside his pool
we never spoke
of his beleagured
political past
he took a liking
to my talents
collected my art
enjoyed
my wide-eyed
naivete
he kept a shoebox
heaped
with odd bits
of papers
torn and noted
with musings
for later use
in his writings
then one day
we dumped
his shoebox
on the floor
and joyfully
together
we wrestled
its contents
like children
in crisp snowflakes
he offered me
one scrap
any scrap
for my keeping
my choice
was easy —
crucifixion failed
he arose
(c) 2003 Spiel
come here cowboy come here
see this virgin soldier boy
stilled in his prime
bagging elbows
coding knees
hey
come here mr. president
come here
phony cowboy
texas blueblood come here
see this virgin boy
counting toes fingers
and spines
go ahead if you must
line up for the rapture
with your clown hat on
mr. president
or better yet
come here come here
to face this boy
who could not bare
his superior officer’s stare
so he was demoted
from near-nobody
to nobody
bagging lips brains
and livers
for transport
back home
to the u.s.a.
come here awol cowboy
show this kid your thumbs
the parts of you which prove
you could have lifted something
greater than a crawford chainsaw
(trimming limbs of a less bloody sort)
and he will show you bags
full of thumb-knuckles
tips and fingernails
zip-coded for shipping
without really knowing
who nor where they came from
this virgin kid
whose virgin sweetheart awaits him back home
this naïve boy who bought your bring em on boast
who figured he could prove he was a man
a mighty christian at war
as he watched you pray
with your eyes shut
but this boy’s feet turned to sand
as you waffled on your why
and his girlfriend sent a message that you’d lied
and unlike all his buddies he’d never felt
the privilege of his sweetheart’s blood yet
here he was all smeared in the blood of thumbs
(not thumbs like yours with tidy fingernails)
plus baby’s splintered bone
splattered in human dung
of young men
just like him
come here come on
bigshot-target cowboy
forgive this virgin kid who cannot stand
to face you cannot look you straight
eye to eye
be humbled in his presence
mr. cowboy without a horse to ride
tell him that you’re sorry
that you led him so astray
admit you never really had the mandate
though he won’t know what a mandate is
he is a simple kid
a no body
do this phony cowboy
get down on your knees
sob yourself to bits and pieces
then hope then beg this kid
can spare some space in his bags
to squeeze your fragments
cast astray with other odds
and ends
to code them back
to general delivery
to see if they
(aside from all
this more noble flesh and bone)
just might stand the test
for the presence of human d.n.a.
come here cowboy has been published in many venues, on and offline, notably, Poets Against War. It appears in Spiel’s Pudding House Publications chapbook, come here cowboy: poems of war, available here on the “Spiel Book” page. About this war protest poem, Tom Conroy, editor of League of Laboring Poets, has written: “come here cowboy is the most brilliant and direct anti-war poem of our time.”
they will say they won’t hurt you
they will swear you they love you.
they will promise they could never hurt you.
they will hurt you.
there will be music.
the music will blind you.
they will not say you the real story of the big picture.
they will mess you over.
they will swear you they could never mess you.
they will turn up the music.
they will smile.
see how they smile.
how they teeth smile.
see they teeth hide they tongues.
they have two tongues.
one tongue will say you how much they love you.
one tongue will stab you in you back.
they will hurt you.
they will tell to you that you hurt you self.
they will swear love to you then tell you
that you have hurt you self.
there will be music.
they will turn up the music.
the beautiful music will blind you.
they will mess you ears.
they will make you believe you ears hear wrong.
they will make you believe they make you hear right.
they will mess you head.
they will make you believe you head is not of you.
like you head was not meant to belong to you.
like you head is best served in they care.
they will crank up the music then smile you in you face.
they will mess you head.
they will mess you sight.
they will mess you ears.
they will smile you in you face till you feel small.
you will smile they back.
or else.
or else you will drop you head.
they will call you lamb.
then they will call you lambie pie.
they will pump up the music.
they will say you they will not tell.
this is when they put they hands on you.
hey!
are you listening at me?
THIS is when they put they hands on YOU!
From: “They” published by March Street Press, 2007, available on the “Spiel Book” page.
“snag” 24″ h x 48″ w (c) 2008 Spiel
knots and ribbons
these silky ribbons
round your nipples
where the bruises were
these ohh so pretty bows
from christmas
and some you tie as slipknots
you tie a few in squareknots
these are the few you yank
draw tight
to bring the bruises back
to remind you he was there
that you have nipples
and in spite of his design
they are your own
not like
when he still had a tongue
to titillate their tips
possess them
make you keep them hidden
beneath rough garments
not even fit for an old hag
he intended
no christmas for you
and no thanksgiving too
he planned you’d sleep forever
with the night noise
of his blackened tongue
on your breath
perhaps nested in your careful hair
or as a lump
beneath your pillow
then dragging from your broken purse
like an afterthought
for your own roadkill
its swollen tip stilled
but forever teasing
at your nipples
where you now tie knots
with these pretty silky ribbons
from the christmas
he believed
he could deny you
and you see in giving thanks
it was his tongue
he bit off
not yours
and that knot he tied
fit his wretched neck
but why why why
in that same moment
did he waste the knot
he tied for yours
and if it takes these bruises
just for you to feel again
let it be with ribbons
pretty ribbons
tight knots
of pretty
silky
christmas ribbons
From “it breathes on its own,” a Spiel chapbook
published by Pudding House Publications, 2005,
available on the Spiel Books page.
marilyn
how she lingered
alone
withdrawn
her voluptuous presence
sparking secretive
beasty uprisings
and my vision is:
a platinum doll
a million evening stars
spitting sparkles
off venus’ mound
in men’s dreams
unfathomable
aloof
wanting
already contemplating
the abandon
of
what men desire
wanting out
the skinning pit
how many times had you watched it, three times seven times
the first time network tv got prime time rights to it,
before you could face the raw fact that you were enchanted
with those riveting hannibal lecter confrontations, that under your breath
you confessed your love for him, that you got off in his presence,
how many times before kevin that sweet shy man at the video store
with his adam’s apple almost jumping through his chin
finally said to you: you know it might be cheaper for you
to purchase your own copy than to rent it one more time –
you, knowing he surely sensed your secret love affair with lecter
because you were not the only one seeking that exhilaration,
because if there was such a thing as a dog-eared copy of a video,
certainly silence of the lambs was exactly that,
and all those who rented it had that same hunger in their eyes:
white men barely breathing, desperate for bargaining power,
not bad men, just men with a worm inside their brains which would not quit –
and maybe a wish for a skinning – some kind of transformation,
not unlike yours but then again not quite the same,
but you purchase a copy of passion of the christ instead,
a film you’ve never seen and have no intent of watching,
believing this will put his mind at ease about your character,
so you suffer through withdrawal from your lecter urge,
your wish to be inside of agent starling on her impassioned search
for buffalo bill, the revelation of his skills, and you stupidly stare
at re-runs of seinfeld and friends and everybody loves raymond,
white men white men oh such very white men,
barely breathing in a world without oxygen,
then you yield though reluctantly and shove the passion into your v.c.r.
where you are astonished to find a reckless and presumptuous film
so filled with sadism and gore you wonder at the intent of the evil minds
of the white man zealots who produced it –
whatsmore at the white man millions who proclaimed it worshipped it
and sacrificed their kids’ lunch money to support it
and you know that even hannibal lecter would have had the decency
to spit it out as white trash
and the vulnerable fledgling clarice starling
would not have wasted five seconds with it
and as for buffalo bill, well, he would not have been able to bear
the buckets upon buckets of blood smeared upon all that precious white skin,
so at six a.m. you crush it beneath the back left wheel of your ford escort,
deposit it through the overnight slot at the video store for them to reckon with,
then have bacon and french toast at denny’s
as you contemplate the skinning –
a truly fit michael jordan in the pit,
you do not abuse him – you keep him well fed on caviar
and such delicacies appropriate for a handsome and wealthy executive –
good nutrition is fundamental to your plan –
you outfit him daily with clean underwear,
provide him adequate exercise with a properly inflated wilson ball
and a challenging hoop ten feet above his head,
oh and good lighting –
good light is essential for good skin,
and as you meticulously and methodically peel band-aid size strips
of smooth and precious black skin from his body,
you replace them with white skin from yours:
he feels no pain nor of course does he complain –
quid pro quo –
you enjoy the extra blueberry syrup on your toast
then, barely breathing,
wait out front of sam’s club till it opens
so you may finally purchase your own personal library copy of silence
as soon as herds of white passion customers flock through the aisles
like blind lambs over a cliff
and you will know you cannot save them,
but it is at this moment of realization
that the freshly released wings of an emblazoned butterfly
verifiably rattle in your ear
and you
breathe freely
for the
first time
From Slipstream magazine. (c) 2006. Nominated for The Pushcart Prize. Hear Spiel perform “The Skinning Pit” on his c.d., “breathing back words,”
available on Spiel Books page
touch
when i was certain she could not speak
when she was dead touching her
was a merciful dream i could not have imagined
such pleasure of her skin
her pure white hair within my hands
i don’t recall who took me to sign official papers
acknowledging she was gone —
the exact time
and was there anything i wished to claim?
yes — a snip of hair
even now i cannot think of anything so white
yes, a few moments alone with her
still warm
not resistant
her mouth not suggesting
how i might change my life to suit her
(c) 2005 Spiel, in “it breathes on its own” a Spiel chapbook
return
our spines bent
legs dwindled
we walked backwards
til our house became tiny
now mama’s passed
my air is dead
i’m coiled
wrapped in gauze
replenished
by a cord
bearing amniotic fluid