Welcome to Fassbinder House

Scene from "The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant"


i step up to the house,
looking for signals:
i stop at the mailbox
and sort through the mail;
tall tales, tall egos, big bills.

each envelope reaches out
and slaps me on the mouth,
'cause it's that time of month
and i'm no fucking martyr:
i'm verbal as a banshee
and i'm drunk and i'm angry.

it's that idiotic syntax
'twixt narcissus in the pond
and the god in the mirror,
as we search our photographs
for verboten passions, and
just as quickly gone,
nothing but façade,
as we're lost to all
sense of who we are.
(we’re mostly frauds.)

i'm sick of word spies and
envious eyes, free-market hype,
and i'm sick of all those who say
say "real" when what they really
mean is "kneel", as they
mount the backs of peasant
farmers, four-square
pilgrims and vapid virgins
(and count me in amongst them).

i'm no longer willing to be
the black lamb tied to sacrifice
lying in wait for the 10-inch knife:
when unworldliness seizes
upon my being, and when, like
stars falling fast, the universe
bends and takes me down with it:

this four-story golden house
in a rural wilderness, and all
the sorry residents who
dwell within it, who want
nothing more than to be one
of those stars, falling or not,
and i want none of it, whether
you believe it or not.

i want to be anonymous.
i want an attic and a stack
of last year's novels––god, make
them classics!––and a bit of typing
stock and a good black marker
and an ink-stain eraser
(for the soul and the paper).

take with you all the fame
and fortune, take it from
the small trough at the edge
of the animal farm;

afterall, it's still swine food
no matter how hard you
believe it's filet mignon,
and all the flailing poets
writing their broken songs,
they're desperate to belong.
(what i remember is dilapidation.)

i want a door and big
sign that reads: welcome to
fassbinder house, put on
your rags of despair and
don your black makeup,
simulate a person,
claim to be a god and
then hide your face in the
effacement of it all.
(my ass, intones the universe,
one more thin thread from
a sack cloth and hair shirt.)

fassbinder said
it ain’t worth shit, and
i tend to believe him because
he showed with visuals and broads
how cold this world is
if anyone of us dare fly
too high, too hard, too free:
we fail, we fall, we
wind up alone on a toilet
or as a ridiculous queen
drinking bitter tears
mixed with malt liquor.

welcome to the animal
farm, welcome to the
caveman in the attic, and
welcome and welcome to
the newcomers and
old timers, welcome new
stars and old, welcome
bright gods and dull horses:

i throw salt over my
shoulder and shrug off
the cold of the animal,
the shrill, yet empty heart
and the unyielding will to power.