Poetry In Lotion

Soft, supple.
Words like cocoa butter on a scar.
Vanilla bacon.

Lorca in Budapest

I wonder what Lorca would have done

in Budapest. He wouldn’t have been

a student. He would have had a

window overlooking intersections.

His mind would not have been evacuated

by so much knowledge. He would have

come many times. He would have

missed his beloved oranges, at the

same time replacing them with peppers.

He would have thought, “Wow. What 

goings on here. What a people. What

a parade of hardened faces. What

sad youth. What exciting times.”

He would not have gone to bed every

night. He would have bathed lovingly,

found some body next to him in

the bath, in the steam room, in the light.

He would have walked to many

meetings. He would have had a 

bag. He would have been liked. He

would have run laughing down the

street not catching his breath.

He would have kissed some man

in the shadows. He would have unzipped

so many flies. He would have

touched himself eagerly. He would

not have dreamt of anything but

tragedy. He would have smoked 

ten thousands cigarettes. He would

have put them out on the windowsill 

and flicked their butts down onto the street.

Copyright 2013 Poetry In Lotion

Disco Jesus

Disco Jesus


“Lust is a force…

Art and war are the great manifestations of sensuality; 

lust is their flower,”

so said Valentine de Saint-Point

Lust has driven me to wage war with men,

and to make art of them;

has served as a source for creation

from the very destruction lust catalyzes

These words are a propaganda for that war,

for that creation–

to both of which I am inexorably bound

I have wandered the city streets looking for men

Finding them

Watching them

Haunting them

Dealing with them


their fortresses

their erections

Excavating their quiet faults 

and secret vulnerabilities;

the soft places you can touch and smell

only if you get past the security guard:

the powerful warmth coming off the naked pelvis

the phallus–hard and dumb–

moving toward you

the loins, ticklish and round

the furry cradle of the perineum

the delicate pleats of the anus;


autumn leaves;



like his wet breath

and the sweat trapped between his body and my back

heavy heat

steam releasing strength


the burn of a ribbon of semen when it first strikes the skin

before it gathers

and quiets

and settles into a deep pool

Cold Water

A drink

A quench

Ice water in a glass gathers perspiration

and sits tilting on the arm of a chair

I want to dive into that glass

and ice

and cold water,

in a flash,

and float

Shimmering wet cold enveloping

Skin puckering

Shivering pale

Your cold water

The boy is naked there

Floating wet and cold

And even the glassy beams of sun 

that reach him in the bottom of the swimming hole

are chilling, 

like icicles


“Where are you going?” ◊ ◊ ◊

Lust has kept me in this city

When long ago “I should have flown” ◊ ◊ ◊

“Oh-oh, oh-oh-oh Desire” ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

My Foe

My Failure

My Ruin






◊ ◊ ◊ From  “Icicle” by Tori Amos

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ From “Sawdust and Diamonds” by Joanna Newsom

(Source: ginaperforma.wordpress.com)


Ambient Cowboy*

Plowed earth,

the old twentieth century way,

a garden


You manage your steed

in old jeans and sneakers


When the blades strike root

or rock,

                        the machine launches forward,

pulling you behind it,

bucking bronco;

you don’t let go


This scene isn’t like any movie,

there are no trailers;

only you,

your parents looking on.

and my admiration,


in watching you just happen to be

                        that man we’ve always heard of


For a moment I understand

how the ideal imitates the real


Nothing at all in particular

is remarkable about this moment,

except that machine,

and its power between your hands,

and the look on our round faces;






working together,




April, 29, 2012


*Title taken from the dance, Ambient Cowboy, by Ivy Baldwin


Copyright Ryan Tracy


Poetry In Lotion Podcast: Show #9 "OCCUPY VERSE", April 12, 2012

POETRY IN LOTION with Ryan Tracy

WPIR Pratt Radio 

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Poetry from the Occupy Wall Street Poetry Anthology

With guests Stephen Boyer and Ben Rosenberg


Photo by Michael Hart

"What Kind of Times Are These" by Adrienne Rich (1929-2012)

Mx. Justin Vivian Bond, “American Wedding” from the album Dendrophile.

Text by Essex Hemphill.