The Sense of Utopia: Bruce Boone and Eric Sneathen in Conversation
James Mitchell and Bruce Boone in San Francisco, ca. early 1970s. Photo: Stephen Mark; courtesy James Mitchell
from Dark Queer Suite (2006)
STEPHEN KING POEM
“Gai” exists but boisterous too: God. Some ex-hippies
in the movie I saw at the Castro with David. The
Big Chill. Near-to-chunky William Hurt. Glenn
Close a real love. Kevin Kline. JoBeth what’s
her name. Now like my neighborhood, 24th St.
To wake up in the night and a flash (I do this
all the time actually) tells you my god there’s
a nuclear war on! If there’s visitors to the
planet or rubble of it in 2020 and there’s anything
left they’ll wonder why these poems, ours, rhymed
language with “nothing.” Señorita Presidente, whined
Baudelaire to his bitchy girlfriend, ta tête, ton geste,
ton air. Just glitter and breathe. Ice.
It grids at this point, affection’s
the invader. Space shudders, orgasms of some Other
World come out, they’re gism. Vampires in
the old US of A? The piece of flesh crawls.
Let the sombitch be, Jed. Hideous infantile giggling.
That back of his, covered with hair, creative? Mr.
Idiot of dreams’s sitting on his back porch, droolin’
or dreamin’. World out there’s a-shiver with ideas
said Baudelaire leaning out his balcony, wrinkles brow,
is there a comparison maybe? Like all those long and
solemn… huh!… can’t remember how it ends till
the sucker finishes, says he. Three Mile Island
short circuit, right? Breadlines, right? A Grenada.
Bag that.
Dearest, I’m writing this to let you know sincerely
that the brightest light we saw last night on lush back
skies was wallpaper. Just Steven Spielberg. I
hope that’s OK with you, babe. As my sentences
become more irreversible they are revealed as just
bridges collapsing—and I hope that’s OK too. What
can I say, really now? Ribs, peach cobbler.
When the children come in for dinner, doesn’t just
about everybody? When you find some good advice,
you let me know. Keep in touch, honey. You know I
“Teeth brushed very well” in a too bright voice. Oh
girl, look at yourselves in the mirror. Try to
keep saying yes, I think it helps. Sex, anger,
trophies. Little things to put in quotes. A
social syntax. I’m short on recommendations,
long on fear. Keep the circuits open, that’s all.
Shambling up to you on the road, ugh, all covered
with… what is it Charlie, gore? Wriggle ears,
make face. Looks like something botched
at McDonald’s. Irate townspeople. “Why don’t it
go back where it came from?” It can’t. It
wants to say I’m just a big reflection of
you, you know. Right now it doesn’t have
words because we don’t have words. The
big black uglies come in and I just stare. Black star
spreads its fearsome light. Oh, too cold.
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