for dc

after dennis cooper's poem
"for mark stephens"--

My mother drank, and she
made me between amphetamines
in a house the plys of summer
furnished with mormon secrets,
and a black piano, through static
transmitted from a chorus in her head,
unleashed from a pill-sized transcript.
A code of her own, encrypted for a day
when the two of us found ourselves.
Alone, my room blossomed vinyl,
saviours scattered in occult patterns,
as earmuffs, against the tirade.
She was cool, was cold, was filled
with shadowed tongues forever keening.
Heroes are cool and wield fire axes,
after creating a way to decipher,
a way to let the voices pour out, and in.
Into a microphone boy, a child hiding, waiting,
for some daytona ovals to allow him,
to speechlessly remake and remodel him,
to thrust him into a slot, eight tracked,
for your, in crowd mirror grin, sawed off
pleasure, a moment away from hell.
More than a season, less than worship,
I too had wished I were an eight track.
But, now Rhodes hides, fat, in a garage,
with his mom feeding his choir trash.
And, Spence died muted and axeless,
and, the others were fakes, or now,
incantations medicated, belong to everyone.
They are only a funhouse, when I am alone,
and wondering, what my mother's voices
sounded like, and I can, only, drop,
my name because of them.
I, am cool, am cold, am devoid
of voices, psychotically calling
me to witness parent ghosts, hand in hand,
quietly staring me down, remaking me.
But, at least, I do, drink, at the very least.