Alan Catlin

( Schenenctady, New York )

in the pitch of citrus, part 1...

is where we are now
is anywhere we are                                vocalese in
A place marked                                  pinks and flesh
A place for retreating
but not a sanctuary

Definitely not a sanctuary

or a place of irreverence even

for a discordance
of deep feelings

of deeply pitched silences

but if we listen
we may hear
something like a requiem

an offertorium
a dies irae
prayers for a male chorus and orchestra
for unbroken voices

And here
the she is kneeling
not in supplication
not in prayer
not for confession

for she has been compelled
to kneel
before the him
in this bright colored nightmare
of predatory sex

made to kneel before
the male altar
for this is a pornography of form
featureless but embodied

an unclothing of intimates
in stark parodies
of love

Here a toccata and fugue in d by Bach
is finishing a play & is
about to be superseded                                 pesante in
by something brooding                                  greens and
something dangerous by Bartok                          brown
something more evil than silence

a dread exercise in positioning
where caresses
become choke holds
a withdrawn sympathy
transformed into a permanent
changeling state

a dichotomy of sexing
to strident mood music
music for strings percussion & celesta

remember the opening scenes
of Kubrick’s The Shining?

That overhead moving passing shot
of a car navigating a treacherous mountain highway
leading to the middle of nowhere

Remember the music?
How foreboding
how forbidding that was?

You just knew where they were going
was going to turn out to be hell

or worse

a living hell

of demon lovers
who may never die
a place where intimates                                deep violet
are for all time                                         attaca

we can’t call them lovers
for what they are doing
isn’t love at all

but a kind of attack
where body parts
meet with other body parts
in a test of strength
no holds barred
winner takes all

winner takes all

every time

Remember the book
Jack was writing?

Those reams and reams
of pages typed in every
possible form

a chronicle of bitterness &
sexual frustration—


a dull boy with a weapon

Spring Supplement 2002 Issue
Winter 2002 Issue