Wayne Koestenbaum


At the Grave of Yvonne De Carlo


Here is a simple recipe
for moral turpitude with hard sauce.
Yvonne De Carlo died.

I frenched a father’s finger.
His omission became my mission.
My luxurious attic life:

a girl ruined or owned it,
nabbed me, sat on me.
I’d misjudged clout levels.

The United States should be washed and folded
and put in its drawer like a good miscreant.
I demand exactitude.


© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review