WHY DO SO MANY MEN HATE CATS?

I really do need somebody to help me out here. Can
someone please tell me why so many men HATE cats?
I mean, I've always liked cats a lot. And I'm pretty
sure I'm a dude. So there are some exceptions. But
keep in mind that I am also a poet - and we tend to be
a fairly strange breed. So maybe that's why I like
cats? But have you ever noticed that most men seem to
DESPISE felines with a vehement passion? It almost
borders on a phobia! These dudes will say the most
incredibly offensive things about cats and their
"sickening" habits. But how come? HELP!

I have a theory? It's just a small one, and not all
that scientific, so again - feel free to offer your own
insights. I think a lot of men secretly feel
threatened by cats. Of course no dude will ever fess
up to that. It would make them appear too weak. And
that's the worst thing that can happen to a dude's
ego. But why the murderous feelings? The only good cat
is a dead cat? That kind of passion to me means that
something very deep is going on inside the dude's
head. I mean, some of the things they will actually
say: Cats are stupid. A dog is better. At least it
will do something when you tell it to. So is that it?
Most men feel threatened by cats because a cat
actually knows how to think for itself, and will look
at you like you are insane if you order it to do
something?

And a lot of men take it very personally when a cat
ignores their attempts at making friends with them.
The cat is simply too stupid or stubborn to be
overjoyed about getting a nice little pat on the head.
Bad, bad cat! Well, I actually admire the cat for
being so independent and aloof. I understand that I am
going to have to earn the cat's respect and trust
before it will allow me to manhandle it in any kind of
fashion. I actually think dogs are kind of silly for
being so easy. It doesn't impress me when I have to
fend off some overgrown mutt that insists I pet it,
and let it lick me from head to toe—not even one
minute after I have first made its acquaintance.

And don't get me started on the litter box deal.
That's usually the excuse I get when I ask a dude why
he is so phobic about cats. He actually hates the
sickening litter box more than the poor cat. But is it
less sickening to have to follow a dog around as you
take it for its morning stroll, and get ready to scoop
up the latest……. I think you know what comes next.
I mean, I find that much more "sickening" than a
harmless little litter box. And who wants to get up at
the crack of dawn, and take Butch outside for his
first walk of the day? I sometimes don't even get out
of bed till the sun has gone down! I am truly baffled
by this cat phobia thing.

So I am hoping that some of you cat hating dudes (the
more honest ones) will bravely step forward and clue
me in. Just fess up that you really hate cats. Then
try and give me a really good reason why - I mean,
something that makes sense. This could very well be
the first step in your recovery - or even my own.
Perhaps you'll somehow convince me that dogs really
are much better than cats. And I hope to hear from
some of the cat lovers too. Men and women both.
Because I am hoping to solve this mystery that's been
bugging me for many a year: Why do so many men hate
cats? Please help me out here.

Essay © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

SUDDEN LIGHT

I slept
in my clothes
again

last night. Those stubborn
buttons were beyond
my dying

fingers. No energy to
unzip my pants, take off
a shoe.

The stark sun
stabs my exhausted eyes
each morning.

Shrill
street sirens startle
my numb mouth open:

A long silent scream,
in a deaf man's
nightmare.

Under the heavy covers
I try to shut out
the world

until I'm somehow able
to rise again. Maybe
Jesus

will come to me
during this suffocating
darkness

and take my soiled hand.
He will pull me out of this
deep black hole

and guide me towards that
sudden light. His sweet
and gentle hands will

bless my blind
eyes open
and make my

body pure. He will wash
away the decay
and deadly fear

with his unearthly love. He
will make the sullen worms
forgive my fallen flesh.

He will throw out the mouldering
shroud. He will sing me
wide awake until

I'm wearing something
white and waltzing in the
sun. He will carry my heavy

burden and stand beside me,
as I laugh and dance on
my own empty grave.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

GUILD, 3 A.M.

The twinkling
yellow and white
lights

of the marquee
are done. The
money's made.

Nothing but black-
ness, and a persistent
wind

entering my sleeping
bag as I try to
catch

a couple more hours
of sleep
before

sunrise and the
sudden return
of

people rushing past
me and the
averted eyes

of The City:
more partial to
celluloid tragedies

and a smart cafe after
than a poor old man
sleeping at their feet.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

BEWARE THE ONES THAT CALL YOU “DEAR”

("Karma's a bitch." - MY NAME IS EARL)

Beware the ones that call you "Dear"
and whisper Shakespeare in your ear.

They'll talk about you when your head is turned:
"A witch from Salem - to be burned."

They'll give you gifts because you're poor:
then steal your time and beg for more.

They'll praise with words not from the heart:
Because telling lies is such an art.

And when you dare to tell them "No."
A living Hell's the debt you'll owe.

Remember Iago - spreading lies:
like a tumor until someone dies.

Men in masks of painted gold:
Making sure the truth's untold.

And they whispered Shakespeare in your ear:
Beware the ones that call you "Dear."

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

FOR ANOTHER MARY

If I seemed cold and casual
during our last minutes -
let me say I am sorry.

But I was already numb by the
news and the nails. So I took
the easy way out -

and did not bother to say what
mattered most: You wanted me
to live while so many wished for

my early death. And I could no
longer figure out the bad from
the good. But I still said my

prayers each night. And hoped
Jesus or Mother Mary might
prove the worldly ones

wrong. And you held my hand
during that dark journey
until the good news came.

And I will always love you for that.

Poem © 2011 by Dylan Mitchell

WHO KILLED SUPERMAN?

The brave man in the
sky was supposed to
stand for America:

Any small town boy
could grow up
and become a hero

just like Superman.
Just lose the glasses,
turn a bright red

table cloth into a
cape. Nab a couple
of bad guys as they

almost get away with
some poor old lady's
purse, and you'd be

up in the big blue sky
before you can say:
God Bless America!

It made so much sense
in the movies. The bad
guys always got caught,

and Superman was
always up there just
watching and waiting

to swoop down and save
America before it's too
late: No dead Kennedys.

No Vietnam. No Nixon
giving us the peace sign.
No Ronald Reagan

pretending to have a
ticking heart. No World
Trade Center. No

George W. Bush hiding
the truth, and blaming the
poor for his own deliberate

mistakes. Just an honest to
God hero always up there
to save America again

and again. Until the beautiful
dream somehow became
crippled and corrupt. And

the best man always loses now.
Our heroes are hunted,
and they fall from the sky

like slaughtered eagles.
America, America:
Who killed Superman?

He was the last one. He was
our only chance. And now
he has a bullet in his head.

From sea to shining sea.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

Remembering John MacKenzie

What can you say about a brilliant artist, friend, and a great spirit -
after he has left this world forever?
I only know what I can say, and I tried to express my love and admiration for John in a poem I wrote. But it somehow doesn't seem enough.

John MacKenzie passed away on May 3, 2011. He was 89 years old. And he was my dear friend for 12 years.

John listened to me endlessly gripe (when I was in a deep depression). He designed the cover of my first chapbook of poems (for free). He fed me when I was broke and hungry. He encouraged me to make the most of life - even as his own health declined.

He believed art made life worth living. And he was still painting on May 3rd - his last day on this earth. So it's too difficult to say goodbye. I prefer, "I'll be seeing you." And I thank you much for all of your patience and love.

VAN GOGH'S CROWS

If I should die
as the sun sets
and the crows fly

will you forget me?
If I should die
as my blood drips

and the saints cry
will you remember me?
After the paint's dry

and the critics lie
and the crows die
will you forget me?

After I die
and a new sunrise
and the crows fly

will you remember me?

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

What If Straight People Couldn’t Get Married?

I actually overheard someone asking this question, while I was standing in line at Safeway the other day. There was an "article" in one of the tabloids about how gay marriage would bring America to its knees (bad pun on purpose) if it ever became legal. The man asking the question appeared gay to me, and he was chatting with the cashier - a straight male Christian. I assume this because he was sporting a wedding ring, plus his casual answer was: "God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve, so your question is ridiculous."

The gay man's face tensed up, but he didn't say anything more. However, the incident really got me thinking about the gay marriage issue, and how some straight folks seem to be clueless when it comes to understanding why so many gay folks are fighting for the right to legally get married.

Let's imagine (to help me make my point) a world in which straight people can't get married. A world in which gays and lesbians are casually stating, "God made Adam and Steve (or Amanda and Eve), not Adam and Eve." A world in which straight people see gays and lesbians getting married on television, in the movies, newspapers and magazines, but never any straight couples. A world in which gays and lesbians defiantly hold protests every time straight people fight for the right to legally get married. A world in which gays and lesbians openly hold hands and/or kiss each other in public, but straight people risk ridicule or worse - if they try to express their love for each other in the world.

Now let's throw in the Bible for good measure (pretend there are sections which clearly state that heterosexuality is an abomination, and the holy union between man and man, woman and woman - is something which pleases God to no end). If you are a heterosexual, how would all of this make you feel? Would it make you angry, depressed, or apathetic? Especially if the idea of straight marriage was considered a "ridiculous" one by many.

Essay © 2007 by Dylan Mitchell

MOTHER TERESA: A BEAUTIFUL SAINT WITHOUT FAITH

Mother Teresa was as human as the rest of us. I know this to be true, because I read it in TIME magazine. She often doubted the existence of God, and felt that Jesus rarely heard her prayers. In fact, she even wondered if there was any sense in praying to a God that seemed not to care about her. I was initially shocked to learn this, because like many people: I see Mother Teresa as a woman of great spiritual strength and faith. The saint of the gutter, forever helping people that the world has given up on. But she was only human. She said so in a series of letters she'd written (and requested they be destroyed).

But the letters were preserved against her wishes. So now we discover that her loving smile was often a mask, and the beautiful words she often stated in public were not words she honestly felt in her heart. She suggested ways to make the world a more loving place, but often felt her words were insincere. She'd learned how to say all the right things, and smiled for the cameras when she was weeping inside.

Does this make Mother Teresa a hypocrite? No, it makes her human, and all the more remarkable. She was a saint without faith, and there are not very many of those. She continued to love the poorest of the poor (and help them even after her doctors had warned her that she was ruining her own health). She taught us that we all have the potential to become saints: that there really is nothing special about it: Give help where it is needed most; love people the world has given up on; any act of kindness (no matter how seemingly small) is better than doing nothing at all.

In short, she taught us to save the world by saving one person at a time. And that is how she lived her life. And to accomplish such a miracle without faith, makes her even more heroic in my mind. Mother Teresa was a saint, but she was a very human one: She moved mountains without faith. I know this to be true, because I read it in TIME magazine.

Essay © 2007 by Dylan Mitchell

My Computer is Done For...

My computer is on the brink of death. It is with great regret that I inform my faithful readers of this most tragic news.

But I'm really not complaining. Sure, I'll miss sending (and receiving email). Plus I won't be able to update my blog: I was looking forward to composing a chapbook review or two. But perhaps it's time to take a break from all that.

Hell, my computer is OLD. And we've shared many good years together. May my tired old Mac rest in peace. Amen.

It's time to buy a notebook and a really good pen. No shame in that. Just ask Whitman and Dickinson.

I'm grateful my days of being alive online -- ended on a happy note: James H Duncan (he edits Hobo Camp Review) included one of my poems in the spring issue of his online poetry and fiction review.

I suggest taking a long peek: The poets and writers are the unafraid kind (think Whitman, Dickinson, Ginsberg, Sexton, Plath, etc.). Plus add Corso and all the other major Beat writers. And you will discover a new generation of poets and writers that are quite happy to be on the unpredictable road -- and have little desire to settle down in the safe suburbs. It's all about taking risks. Hell, no lives of quiet desperation for these folks! And I should know! We are like a family of deliberate misfits (IMHO).

Anyway, here's the link to the site: http://hobocampreview.blogspot.com/

And this is my poem: I'd like to thank James for including my work with the poetry and prose of so many truly gifted writers. I am genuinely humbled.

So here you go. I'll be thinking of all of you as I put pen to paper. Be happy and well.

In The Dark Café

It grows cold out there.
But I didn't call, I didn't call
before I ran away from home.
The large hot tea is sweet and good.
I've finished my cake, but hunger
for something more. Young people
smile and smoke, and remind me
I am getting old. Too
old for the insane games
he forced me to play at home.
The small voice inside saying:
be careful be careful.
(He watches my window, and
wants me to know. Five days
in a row, shrill messages at dawn,
until I took the phone off the hook.
Now notes on my door. Red
rage bleeding on every page.)

It seems so much saner here.
Two skeletons play chess.
A homeless girl reads The Catcher In The Rye.
The hot waiter dances,
like a young Travolta.
I glance at a poet and become calm and bold
(he counts his long fingers after every line).
I remember a sonnet I wrote in school:
A disconnected phone can't make you cringe,
and better locks may keep you safe inside.
Because you failed to give back love to love –
the angry ravens watch you from above.
I am far far from home.
I've come to this place to think and mend.
These smiling strangers are my only friends.
My stalker's at home.
It grows colder outside.
I write this poem instead.

© 2011 by Dylan Mitchell

FALLING DOWN

New York City is falling down
as I rise from my bed
like a stubborn corpse
While people are burned
and buried alive
here I make stiff fingers move
shuffle my numb feet
toward life

Mad planes seek easy targets
in the sky Here I put on my
hat, let the elevator
drop me down
to the basement
below Maybe a miracle
will come in the mail
one day soon
The Disability checks

won't stop
I won't lose the subsidized
roof over my head
untold loaves of
bread will appear in the
empty cupboard like magic
And good blood will
flow through my sick
veins once again
Thank you
America

The Twin Towers fall
and some 3,000
souls are gone
Here I abandon my bed
sip weak coffee
and squint at the
12 inch screen

In New York City
a homeless man has
hung an American flag
across the side of his
cart But I only see
hunger and early
coffins here Red is the
color of blood, ashes
are white, bruises are
blue Now a barefoot girl

has wrapped a flag
around herself like a
shroud Her face is a
mask of ash, her dark
eyes are ringed with
blood, blue bruises
disfigure her feet
She is an American
saint on display

A letter in the mailbox
is a dangerous
thing now, but
I am already falling, falling
Since bombs or germs
won't make my world
worse: I open my mail
never think to wash my
hands, check the empty
cupboard one more time,
and wait for my world
to explode

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

BALLAD BLUE

I'm in a town I did not build,
my room is rather mean.
The fleas are leaping 'round and 'round -
my body's not that clean.

I stopped at Freddy's for the cure,
the cost was not too high.
I cannot scratch another spot -
I'd rather see them die.

I'm not an outcast in this town:
Typhoid Mary who?
I slipped and fell, but who has not -
that's why this poem's not blue.

I'll spray my room, and scrub my face
until my life is new.
I'll stay away from Smoky Hell -
make all my dreams come true.

I'll stay inside and write a book
about the world I knew:
The streetwise boys and moonlight girls -
their eyes were baby-blue.

My room is small, my pockets bare,
yet I write this poem for you.
The grungy loner took a bath -
I'm fit for Powell's - it's true.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

JANIS JOPLIN SAVED MY WRETCHED LIFE!

It was 1978 (I think)
and my hair was
too long

and my skin a mess:
people called me
pizza face

and thought they
were being clever.
Never mind that

I had (at least I
thought) the worst
case of acne

in Chicago. So I
dropped out of
high school and

meeting up with
my friends. I
only went

out after dark. And
hotfooted it home
to my small room.

And read at least
1001 library books:
Most were penned

by famous poets. But
I also started to
read biographies

about other
misfits and
outsiders.

And Janis Joplin
(in 1978) was
still up for grabs.

Most straight folks
(apart from those that
believed drugs were

the only way to achieve
Nirvana) seemed
to either

love her or hate her. Big
time. The hard core
Christians especially

loved to use her as an
example of what "sin"
will do to a person.

Given that I was already
damned forever (a ghastly
homosexual!)

I felt protective of
Janis. And identified
with her outcast

status. And I must have
listened to her Greatest
Hits on

8 Track (do you remember
those?) at least a 1002
times.

And read every book about
her I could find. And
my small room was

plastered with Janis posters
(some of them I designed
myself).

Until my world became a
shrine to her memory. And
folks shook their heads,

and were in awe of my respect
for her: "She was just a
drug addict - is that

somebody worth so much
time and effort?" Yes,
I'd say.

Because she put all the
small town bigots to
shame:

The ones that told her
she was ugly and
had no talent:

And guess what? People
are singing a
different

tune now. Even the fools
in Port Arthur, Texas.
Sort of reminds me

of what happened to
Frances Farmer in
Seattle. But

we won't go there
tonight. I'll
save

that for another poem.
All I want to say now
is this:

I am alive today
because of Janis.
She made being a

so-called freak
a beautiful thing:
and puts all those

"perfect" ones to
shame. Because of
her immense courage

and talent. Because of her
pitted (and beautiful)
face.

Because she earned the right to sing the blues.

© 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

LIE

I'm still struck by the
irony of it all: How
I'd recently put the
picture of the two
of us in a special
frame I'd found
at Ace. LOVE
IS FOREVER
carved in the
hard wood.

Now
one day later
I am betrayed
forever by a
man who thinks
nothing of being
kind to my
enemies. Welcoming
back the beast into
my parlor. Making
sure I'm an easy
target for the next
brutal attack.

And I sit here and
wonder what
sort of sick
world is this I'm in:
a pair of lovers
housed in a
handsome frame.
Your strong arms
holding me close
for the throwaway
camera. And the
only thing forever
is the terrible lie
carved in the
hard wood.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

VAN GOGH’S CROWS

If I should die
as the sun sets
and the crows fly

will you forget me?
If I should die
as my blood drips

and the saints cry
will you remember me?
After the paint's dry

and the critics lie
and the crows die
will you forget me?

After I die
and a new sunrise
and the crows fly

will you remember me?

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

CAN POETRY CHANGE THE WORLD?

I believe a good poem can change the world — one person at a time. I believe a good poem can give one hope. I believe a good poem can give one strength. I believe a good poem can help somebody feel less alone. I believe a good poem can inspire forgiveness. I believe a good poem can help one cross a difficult bridge. I believe a good poem can open one's ears to music, and make one want to dance.

I believe a good poem is like a prayer — it can help one see the moon and stars — on a very dark night. I believe a good poem can change the world — one person at a time. In fact, this beautiful and simple late poem (by Anne Sexton: 1928—1974), changed my life for the better: It made me focus less on myself, and more on the world. It made me both happy and sad. It made me want to live. It made me want to become a poet. Isn't it ironic?

WELCOME MORNING

There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry 'hello there, Anne'
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.

All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean, though often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
to a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.

So, while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter in the morning,
lest it go unspoken.

The joy that isn't shared, I've heard,
dies young.

—Anne Sexton

Essay © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

ROUGH TRADE

I would be a liar if I pretended I still
don't think they are the hottest
thing ever in bed. Even if most
of my fantasies are based on badly
made porn: drunken sailors and
soldiers, playing with their meat
in front of a gay man's camera.
Just for a few laughs (and a few bucks).
I wonder how many of them regret it in
the morning? Or do they just brag to
their buddies about how they scammed
some stupid faggot out of a thousand
bucks? And all they had to do was
stroke their meat, while the queer took
a few pics. And they got all the beer and
whiskey they wanted, and even a
sandwich or two for good measure?

I once shared a 2 bedroom apartment
with a very hot straight guy. He knew
I was gay. Yet seemed to love to be
around me when he was fresh out of the
shower. Towelling himself off, as I stood
there and watched. He loved to tease
and torture me with all his butch beauty.
Once, he grabbed me by the shoulders,
and pushed my face down to his sweet
smelling crotch. "So what are you waitin'
for dude? Just go for it."

I was about to cup his balls in my
hand, and give him the blow job
of his dreams (and my own), when
he suddenly pushed me back, and
laughed in my face. "Dude, you know
I ain't no queer." I found a studio
apartment a week later, and heard
he had joined the army.

Now whenever they
show those sad photographs on
TV of soldiers that have died in
the war, I pay extra close attention.
And hope I'll never see his cocky
face. Every now and then, I'll take
a long shower, and use Irish Spring
soap. And remember his sexy smell,
as I imagine what it would have been
like, if he'd only kept his big hands on
my trembling shoulders. And let me
do what he secretly wanted me to do.
Instead of treating me like a joke.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

NUMB

Kurt put a shotgun in his
beautiful mouth: A century
before, Van Gogh's crows
scattered south when

they heard the blast from
a gun pointed at his own
unhappy heart. People put
sunflowers on his pauper's

grave. Hemingway and Brautigan
also used a gun. To save
themselves from writer's block—
ending their last sentence with

a bullet: a hole in the page
of life. But Sylvia chose to
kneel before her tiny gas oven:
one last prayer after all the rage

was written out of her. And Ariel
made her name. While Anne chose to
die in her garage. As she sat
in her car, with the engine

running. Wearing her mother's coat:
something to bring her luck, as she
gambled with Mr. Death. Wanting to
die. Hoping he would win.

They did not rage against the dying
of the light. But welcomed darkness
like an old friend. So if Dylan
Thomas was right—does that make them

insane or dumb? Or too weary to fight?
Sick of the world's beautiful lie.
Afraid of dawn with its terrible light:
Too battered and numb. No tears left to cry.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

FEAR IS JUST A CRUTCH

Free for thirty days
My broken mind is mending
Fear is just a crutch

Haiku © 2010 by Dylan Mitchell

AN ENGLISHMAN IN NEW YORK

DVD Review

An Englishman in New York is only 75 minutes long. But the DVD has some splendid extra features (John Hurt talks about why he decided to star in the film, plus there's a wonderful feature about the many challenges of making New York appear as it did during the years Quentin Crisp lived and performed there).

For example, apart from an extra window or two (plus a private bathroom) - Quentin's room looks exactly as it did in real life: rather cluttered and dusty. In addition, the humiliating scene where Quentin tries to help Patrick Angus find a gallery to show his "nasty" paintings - is very true to life. The gallery owner was not very kind. Yet Quentin persisted, and a suitable gallery was eventually found.

Given that the artist died young (from complications due to AIDS), I was very moved by everything Quentin had done to help his dying friend: Especially given all the harsh criticism he received after he once infamously stated that AIDS is a fad.

But actions speak louder than words: Mr. Crisp quietly donated thousands of dollars to an organization dedicated to AIDS research. I think that was his way of offering a retraction. He remained a true original untl the end.

John Hurt 's performance is remarkable: The voice, timing (and even how Quentin walked) are all spot on. In fact, there are one or two unguarded moments where we get to see an emotionally naked Quentin Crisp. Hurt's acting is heartbreaking. Yet he also manages to capture all the great wit and joy for life that Quentin was famous for.

My only criticism of the film is that I wish it might have been a bit longer. Quentin lived in New York for two decades. Both the city (and the man) went through several changes. At the end of the film, one gets the feeling that Quentin knew he was returning to England to die. Since my last phone chat with him was a mere two weeks before he died - I was baffled and deeply saddened to discover this truth. I knew he was exhausted and experiencing several serious health problems, but he was his usual cheerful self on the phone, and there was no clue he was ready to say goodbye to the world.

An Englishman in New York brings Quentin back to us: Polite, witty, wise, and brave. And true bravery is rarely seen or known.

Viewer Rating: 10/10

Review © 2010 by Dylan Mitchell

*This review first appeared on Nigel Kelly's excellent site... dedicated to the life and times of Quentin Crisp. If you are a fan (or would like to learn more about a truly great spirit), then I encourage you to visit Nigel's site. It really is amazing.http://www.quentincrisp.info/

FOR CRYING OUT LOUD

I was only a boy in 1973. Yet
I still can remember the first
time I saw Lance: I thought
he was witty and honest and
vulnerable. Both my brothers
thought he was a freak. Then
went on to say I acted a lot
like him. And I better learn to
watch my step. Or I'd wind up
in some sideshow.

I couldn't figure out why they
hated him so? He was the
most real person in that very
fake California Dreamin'
household. AN AMERICAN
FAMILY. Praised by the likes
of Margaret Mead. I knew no
families like the one Lance had.
They seemed too pretty and
plastic. Like the flowers that
were so popular at Woolworth's
at the time. At least Lance was
a true pansy. And not some fake
red rose in a Tiffany vase. I could
smell his sadness. Beneath all the
glitter and camp. He was my
first queer hero.

He actually made it to NYC. And
stayed at the crumbling Chelsea
Hotel: That holy place where so
many great artists once stayed.
Even though many were still
unknown while they were there:
Patti Smith once rented a tiny room
with Robert Mapplethorpe. Before all
the fame and fortune and notoriety.

Andy and Edie famously haunted the
dingy halls - while they were still alive.
And Janis always stayed there when
she was in New York: Little Girl Blue -
all decked out in silver bracelets and
soft boa feathers. And Sid and Nancy
played out their Punk Romeo and
Juliet tragedy in one of the small
rooms. And didn't Dylan Thomas
spend a night there in the 1950s?
Before all the booze and envious
poets destroyed him?

It's no wonder Lance felt like he'd
finally found a home. And if these
were the people that most of the
country considered freaks to be
laughed at - then I wanted nothing
to do with THE AMERICAN FAMILY.
And wanted to follow in the
footsteps of Lance. And Janis. And
Patti. And Andy. And Dylan - all my
brave and doomed outsiders. They
were my family. And when Lance
died - it was like losing a brother.
Because he taught me that it's
better to be a glorious pansy. The
real thing. Instead of a fake red
rose. Even if it means leaving the
world much sooner than all those
artificial flowers born in a factory.

*Lance Loud died in 2001. He was 50.

© 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

MY DINNER WITH ALLEN GINSBERG

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked…."

—Allen Ginsberg


Dylan: John, I want to thank you for sharing your
memories of Allen Ginsberg. I have to honestly fess up
that you are the first person I've ever chatted with that
actually knew such a major American poet. "Howl" is the
first poem I ever memorized. And I find it just as powerful
today, as I did when I was fourteen years old. And that
was almost three decades ago!

John: Okay, I want to say right off the bat that I did
not know Allen all that well. In truth, it was my
lover (Marius Bewley—the very well known literary
critic and writer) that received the call from Allen
inviting us to dinner. Frankly, I was so involved in
my own career as an illustrator of children's books,
that I would not even have remembered the dinner.
Except for the unfortunate fact that Allen served
lobster. And rather raw: mine actually crawled off my
plate, and plopped onto the floor.

Dylan: Oh my god. That is too funny! So what did you
do?

John: Well, since Marius had already asked Allen if he
could have an omelette instead of lobster, I politely
requested an omelette too.

Dylan: And what happened to the lobster that crawled
off the table?

John: Allen simply picked it up off the floor, then
tossed it back in the steaming pot on the stove, and
let it cook for another ten minutes or so. Then he ate
all three lobsters. While Marius and I enjoyed our
omelettes. I remember they were very good. And so was
the wine. Which is perhaps why the scene seemed less
surreal at the time than it actually was.

Dylan: Surreal is such a good word to describe such a
dinner! Had Allen already published HOWL when you met
him?

John: I think he was still writing it. This was in the
very early 1950s. When he was living in the modest
apartment on East 7th Street he occupied for many,
many years. There's a famous photograph of Kerouac on
the fire escape. Also, one of Allen on the roof. It
was a nice apartment. Not enormous. But he kept it
neat. And had an impressive number of books. Burroughs
stayed there for awhile. When he was looking for a
place of his own. It's never been easy finding a
decent apartment in New York. Especially when you're a
starving poet or artist.

Dylan: So how did your lover first meet Allen?

John: Marius liked poets and writers. And so
they liked him. Plus he had published several
well-known books of his own: THE COMPLEX FATE (with
an introduction by F. R. Leavis). THE ECCENTRIC DESIGN.
And MASKS AND MIRRORS (dedicated to Peggy Guggenheim).

Dylan: I've heard of F.R. Leavis. He's one of those
great literary critic legends I've always been so in
awe of. He certainly had some very strong and original
opinions about literature. Which he frequently
published.

John: Yes, he did not agree with what Marius wrote
about Henry James. But that's an enormous part of
being a literary critic. They often battle among their
own. Otherwise, it all would become too predictable
and boring.

Dylan: I agree. So what's your lasting impression of
Allen Ginsberg? The memory you will never forget. Did
anything about him really stand out? Even before he
published HOWL?

John: You know, I always thought Allen should have
been a Rabbi. He had this enormously sweet quality
about him. I was more impressed by his sweetness, than
anything he said about art or literature. But I was so
very young then. And engaged in my own literary
career. Yet I do remember how sweet he was. So humble
and unpretentious. Which is unusual in one so gifted
and young.


Interview © 2008 by Dylan Mitchell and John MacKenzie

PEARL

He was just another ragged homeless man on a park bench to most of the employed (and housed) people hurrying past him. Staring at his feet. His downcast eyes giving him the appearance of a sleeper. But he was actually quite awake. I stopped in my tracks, and he suddenly lifted his white bearded face. Then he greeted me with a grin.

"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose," he said, in a clear low voice. "A whiskey-voiced lady blues singer made those words famous. But a drunken poet had to write them down on a napkin first." Then he returned to staring at his worn and tattered shoes for a moment, until his wise blue eyes gradually closed. He had nothing more to say, and was done with me. I was being dismissed.

I just stood there. Stunned and speechless.

Essay © 2008 by Dylan Mitchell

LAST CALL

What good is a phone?
In cold England or the States?
Just ask Sylvia.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

THE STRAIGHT LIARS' CLUB (FOR MATTHEW SHEPARD)

Matthew Shepard: 1976 - 1998

Have you ever been the victim of a Hate Crime? I don't mean the verbal sort (getting called a faggot). Sadly, this has happened to plenty of gay men. I'm talking about when your life is in danger - because several straight dudes have decided they want to physically bash a queer.
This happened to me when I was 23. I'd just left a gay bar, and all of a sudden I noticed six dudes (they were drinking in a vacant lot across the street) were glaring at me. They started calling me a faggot, as they followed me to a bus stop I was headed towards.

Suddenly a beer bottle was thrown at me, and since there was no bus in sight (it was close to 1 A.M.), I figured I'd better make a run for it.  They continued to throw bottles at me (and call me names), as they chased me for at least four blocks. One of the bottles struck my head, and blood began to drip all over the front of my shirt.

I decided to run down an alley, and noticed an open back gate to somebody's house. I dashed into the yard, and hid under the porch. I could still hear the dudes shouting in the distance, and I was certain I was going to die. I was trembling and dizzy as hell, but managed to hide under the porch until dawn. I figured it was finally safe to come out, so I left the yard, walked to the bus stop I'd originally been headed towards, and sat on a bench. It took the bus ten minutes to arrive, and it seemed like the longest ten minutes of my life. But once I was on the bus, I felt like I just might survive. At least I was no longer alone. I did not report what had happened to me, and I still have a small scar as a reminder. I never went back to that bar again.

I wonder how often this sort of thing happens, and goes unreported? Since I never got a good look at any of the crazy dudes, I felt it would be pointless to go to the police. I was just grateful to have survived. But I suspect this kind of hate crime is more common than is known. I wrote a poem about Matthew Shepard, after I found this haunting photograph of him on the internet. I don't know who the photographer is, but I am forever grateful. Matthew seems at peace with the world. Plus he's still wearing his shoes. This fact becomes heartbreaking, because Matthew would ultimately be robbed of his shoes and his young life.


THE STRAIGHT LIARS' CLUB

Alone, dying, and tied to a fence
Robbed of your money and life
By your new gay friends
Not a husband, but a wife

Is what they dreamed of most
So they tricked you into the truck
Beat you bloody with a gun
Was it just a bit of bad luck

That made you trust a pair of
Straight liars? Or was it
Something more like love
Their deceptive smiles and

Macho ways: just a trap to
Lure you to your death
They hated gays, and liked to
Brag - long after your final breath

They seemed so earnest and friendly
What did you have to lose
Your mother and father and future
Your pair of expensive shoes

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

SOMEBODY’S SCREAMING

Walking to Safeway
Vincent's moon and stars above
Somebody's screaming

Haiku © 2010 by Dylan Mitchell

#1 (from 100 Men I Have Slept With)

Chicago. Summer of 1980.
I was just an 18 year old kid
from the poor side of town.
I knew I was different, but
didn't know where to go to
find other people like myself.
The only queers I knew anything
about were the rich and famous
ones on television: Baby-voiced
Truman Capote. And maybe rugged
Rock Hudson (didn't he like to knit?).

So I got sick of being so lonely,
and when I heard about a gay
movie (CRUISING)
being shown at a theatre
downtown, I put on my finest jeans
and button-down shirt, and took
a bus all the way to State St.
I remember I was afraid of so many
queers in one place. It was a bit
overwhelming. And so many were
conspicuous and proud! While I'd
always felt ashamed of what I
was. And tried to hide in some
dark closet.

I don't recall much of the flick. That's
how nervous I was. And when
somebody suddenly put his large hand
on my innocent knee in the dark, I
jumped up to flee to the Men's room,
and was splashing cold water on my
face when Tom suddenly smiled at
me in the bright mirror: Thirty-something.
Long brown hair. Straight white teeth.
Dorky glasses. But with a jock's hard body.
He actually asked me if I needed a hero?

I followed him out of the theatre, and into
his car. He lived alone in an expensive
condo. After three glasses of white wine,
and a rough kiss on his couch, he suggested
I join him upstairs. In his huge bed beneath
a window of stars. I asked him if we
should at least close the curtains?
But why? He said. Then he kissed me
again, in front of the naked window. And
put my hand on his hard cock, as he
started to unbutton my impossible shirt.
And the straight world outside couldn't
stop me anymore.

Copyright © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

DEATH BECOMES THEM

That's the title of the book I finished reading late last night. It's all about famous and infamous suicides. Everybody's in it: Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Vincent van Gogh, Diane Arbus, Hemingway, Freud, Hitler, Kurt Cobain, Elliott Smith, Abbie Hoffman, etc. The author is Alix Strauss.

I know a depressed person should not be reading books about suicide. However, the book is wickedly morbid and oddly witty. One might even call it entertaining. How the author managed it, I'll never know. The woman is a genius. So I am not entirely to blame.

In truth, I'm grateful to have discovered this book. Suicide is a subject I have always been deeply curious about. However, I'm not terribly fond of academic books (I dropped out of college for very good reasons). Apart from The Savage God (a classic study of suicide, written by A. Alvarez), I was bored to death by everything I got my greedy little hands on. How can suicide ever be boring? That's what I wanted to know.

But now we have: DEATH BECOMES THEM. And it's an insightful page turner. I was hooked from the start. If you are curious about famous and notorious suicides, then this book deserves a long peek.

Resume

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

- Dorothy Parker

Nonfiction
Harper Paperback Original, 2009

Reader Rating: 9 /10

Review © 2011 by Dylan Mitchell