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For Sean

My flashes of blood on the soft
white sheets my mother gave me
have turned to brown graffiti marks.
A boy left them, and went away.

Even when I was a virgin hovering over
Tony Carroll's smooth mahogany frame,
to "ride it baby" in high school, I never bled
from a  phallus.

At 40, my  30 year old boyfriend called my
opening , a cookie.
He said that sex was, "no no's" &

innocence is a craving in the days after
the flood.  The flood that leaves us all bloated,
dead and hungry .

Not the rain, which cleanses
from heaven -- maybe just a sky.

And sex is somewhere in between -
they say Marilyn Monroe was thirsty 
and she drank.  And she died from a Kennedy sun -
and she died a gorgeous fabulous ghost.

He said, "It must be your time."  And I
turned to see the crimson coating his cock.
"Or, I hurt you."  "No, you didn't hurt me.."  
I answered softly,
still overwhelmed by the  masculine waves
of his body, an ocean.

I remembered  Sinead O'Connor's,
"There was blood on the wall."

Baby, didn't I lick your balls?
Weren't my kisses candy?
Didn't' I invite you in?

And when I asked, "Are you going to kill me?"
Didn't you answer, "Not tonight."

Lo Galluccio

MY BROTHER, ALASKA (after Paul Celan)

I went to Alaska to escape the red hills
of him saying mandolin in Italian.  A knife
under his smile, a knife under the sink,
a land open to the sun, open like Ophelia.

It smiled with its engine.  It smiled so his 
firetruck of childhood would remain. In 
a Polaroid I see the way he ruled his rage
to reclaim it.

			I went to Alaska.

Into an updraft of silence I go with these keys
to worship the ice as a Vatican, a well.  Waves
take my brother out - gray fractures our driveway -
in shark teeth like memory run smooth, an

			I went to Alaska.

I can't escape the hills, not with my army 
Of horses, not with my chariot of eyes.  He
rises a child and I can't wake him.  The secrets
between us are locked in the map or is it amnesia?
My brother, Alaska, what is it you dream?

If you have a dark dream chase it.  The wolves will bury
your dream under the moon.  The moon is not vortex.
One aghast pearl pregnant dressing the void.  Light.
Light.  And Alaska carries time into another wavelength,
eliminating your miasma of aim.

			I went to Alaska.
			I went to Alaska.


Explosions in the open fists of leaves
Over East 4th Street America's quilt
Drops handkerchief for patriotic infants
Crawling the street
Who don't fuss about the November moon
Distant fixture of frozen

On the E train gum pushed through
Mulberry lips and teething rings
Hustled through the cars

2 trains running like a mirror drag racing
where nobility erupts serge blue and hushed
crafty puppets wise crack for a good living
into our cribs

technology the ocean engulfing our continents

women with solemn eyes and sleek black
hair cordoned off for duty take oaths
that advance them a generation,
into the tribe of civic order
sister to sister, brother to brother

who becomes who, whose gun faces off
whose vice
whose vice becomes whose virtue

shadows of sword-light on grey windows
rumors of substance sold for .99 cents 
A nation's debt fucks itself feverishly in digital display

Times Square

Men mumble the word sweet
A snake hiss as if the high grass of this city held 
A belly aching to be stroked
They would smack an image
They would pick my putty
From their teeth with deli splinters
Mangy wolves of men whose jaws are clamped

Not bayed open at the elegant moon and
Alabaster gray sloping light
So much gray, always another shade

My head aswarm with the butterflies
Not of the Peabody Museum
Unexalted and pituitary

Zapping from this
Concrete miracle fire-trap
Of a City broker and obliterate
Cold cold furnace of heat

Hands are too full of wet paint
Too red and too mistaken 
To touch anybody else in the sockets
Where their dreams live:
It would ruin the evidence.

Lo Galluccio

C)opyright 2007 LO GALLUCCIO - All Rights Reserved

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