THE ABORTION.

The stillness of the room is
gently broken by the first stroke
of the young concertmaster’s baton.
Onstage, the unfolding curtain of flesh
slowly reveals the
rising stamen of Ganymede.
Life force swells: the crescendo é accelerando
of aching muscles and rallying corpuscles
soon cheer on an intimate pas de deux
between hand and penis.
At once, the ritual fountain catapults
stars and comets in a
grand feu d’artifice.
How suddenly the triumphant applause of
body and emotion dissipate into silent shame
as the youth wipes away the seed
of the aborted fetus.

THE HOMECOMING.

Two machines work in tandem to
transport the newcomer to his
destination: the Incoming Arrivals
terminal, some 60-feet away.
One is called Body: a
miraculous mechanism of impulses
and veiny cylinders which pumps
sparks of inertia into otherwise
lifeless organs and limbs.
Another has assumed the name Escalator:
a complex simple machine, whose
sleek metal and plastic components
derive their electricity from a
brain unaffected by emotion and the
undependable workings of the spleen.
Together, these two brains scheme
to smuggle Body from plane to
terminal without arousing its
potential security risk:
the emotional system.
Body’s eye-apparatus fixates
upon the fourth wall,
noting neither destination
nor landscape in-between.
Brain sends Body impressions
of Elevator and simultaneously
commands to “search and find.”
Spleen sleeps, sufficiently
blinded by Eyes (and too
sophisticated to implement the
long-since devolved functions
of Ears and Nose).
Vessels pump … gears spin;
and Eyes notes a multitude of
peer-bodies assuming similar
movements; a signal is sent to
Brain, with press releases to
Body: “Everyone is doing it.
Ergo, it must be right!”
Body moves toward Escalator
with gusto; and Spleen awakens
abruptly when Escalator
chuckles “gotcha!!!”
But the hopelessness is not
fully understood until Spleen
realizes that Body is alone
in the stream of fast-walking
zombies, guided by Eyes’ robotic
gaze … and overhears the one-way
laughter of Escalator, who
neither sputters nor flinches.

(The preceding poems are from “Collected poems and stories”.)

STORTÅEN.

Hhhjaaahh … skål!
For glede … og
forføreriske hipp hopp –
ghettorytmer som
tvinger mitt hjerte
til å synge, og mine
stramme lender til å
svinge … fønky!!! Jaaaahh …
Virkelig svinge; uhh høhhh …
så intenst at
muskelvevene mine får
huden til å sprekke
perler
av oljeglatt svette
som renner, nei –
siver …
hemningsløst, og
uten samvittighet
… langt nedover …
(ikke stopp) …
mot min ventende …
(JEG BLIR SÅ FLAU –
den rykker noe jæææævlig
med musikken) …
mot min svære,
stygge,
opphissede,
arrete,
sexy
og sjelfulle
stortåen.
“Skal vi legge oss snart,
søta!??”

(The preceding poem is from “Three-legged Waltz”.)

INSTANT RECALL.

‘Real’ briefly becomes surreal,
through transference;
flashbacks of earlier moments –
long since filed away on
my mental hard-drive:
from the first teenage ejaculation to
secret college dorm circle jerks, and
more-recent ‘delurked’ web chats.
Our momentary glimpse in passing
awakens all those lost memories
and more … yeah …
relentless fever; overtaking us
both — albeit individually, and
intentionally confined to our own
private memories and fantasies –
We meet … just for a few minutes …
and briefly exchange a
kaleidoscope of potential
experiences — fueled by
instant recall.
The scent of my own fresh semen
on my genitalia, chest and chin
inundates the moment and
my last thought as our eyes
finally avert one another is:
“Scoop it up!”

SEX ME UP!

Sex me up … real good!
I’m following every word
in our web chat … looking
for every possible perambulation;
all double-meanings and
cleverly-veiled suggestive remarks.
But don’t get too direct with me, and
I don’t want to know your problems;
you must never interfere with
my attraction to the fisted fantasy
that gives me ultimate satisfaction:
the ‘other world’ you think that we create
together, but which I (myself)
both covet and selfishly desire to own
entirely and solely.
You know the rules … you know the game;
now sex me up — real good!

BUSTED BY A BANALITY.

I was just about to successfully
pull off a ‘premature evacuation’
when the goddamned computer announced
“You got mail!”;
thus waking my sleeping partner.
After lying and saying I was
just going to get a glass of water,
he turned over and returned to his snoring.
I sat up awake …
wondering what his important
e-mail message was.
“We can get you a bigger penis!”
I crawled back into bed,
quietly singing to myself
about the fifty ways …

(The preceding poems are from “Gaytude”.)

THIS CRAZY VISION OF MINE.

I lie on the sofa — half-asleep in a wet dream,
my body lubricated with sweat and the
room pungent with the imagined scent of
dripping man-cunt and semen.
The ringing of the telephone disrupts my fisted dance
with an impudence that only can be described
in four- or five-letter words, and a disturbing
feeling comes over me — somehow
I know that something is amiss –
this crazy vision of mine offers no
humane release; there is no humanity
anymore — only the immorality of
so-called ‘morality’ and idleness.
They say that idleness is the work of
the Devil, yet society binds us to
television and global propaganda
ranging from politics to advertising:
a sadomasochistic mind control.
Big Brother is not watching us –
we have become Him willingly,
embracing uniformity and ratting
out suspected dissidents — be they
enemy or friend, neighbour or mother.
I pick up the receiver and before
I manage to grunt ‘hallo’ I hear
a husky breathing sound –
not quite panting, but a
relentless deep-seated
emanation evolving from
the caller’s spleen.
After two minutes of mutual
breathing into the receivers,
I excuse myself to go get
a cigarette, and we continue
our duet — my caller singing
the baseline while I willingly
exhale the melody.
When my suitor abruptly
hangs up the telephone
I fall back onto the sofa,
finally spent — and
immediately depressed.
I cannot get the experience
out of my mind.
It is forever embedded in my libido
and I will never again be the same.

(The preceding poem is from “Entre Nous”.)

MY STRANGER … SO SWEET.

So sweet
are your suggested promises.
My stranger.
My unobtainable
moment of passion.
You coax me;
you cast me aside.
We can only have each other
in our leap-frog dreams:
both out-of-sync and yet
totally — oh so totally …
in syncopation.
The relentless fantasy is more
than the sum of reality’s
individual parts.
I see you everywhere;
in the gait of strangers …
in my memories.
Beginning from the
waist down …
easing toward the toes
and then quickly
darting upwards
to a fleeting and
indiscriminate
photographic flash
of your insignificant face.
My stranger.
My passion.
My stranger …
So sweet.

GLAMOUR.

Walking the fine line
between glamour and
sobriety … taking care not
to fall between the
cracks … not to believe
in the darkness of the
daylight alone,
away from the glitter
of champagne cocktail nights,
designer jackets,
tastefully-torn jeans
and uncomfortable shoes.
The music must not stop;
shine the camera on me
just a little bit longer. See:
I am setting the pace,
flaunting a fashion statement.
Synthetic is but a natural
reaction against reality.
Just give me my moment.
A self-made idol;
cliches spat out and
regurgitated.
Yes, I could be a star.
What … my name?
I am just part of the
rhythm, the lights are
my melody against the
night of glittering glam.
A torn off piece of
average sparkling
against the annals of
history and the
forgettable.

DIRTY TALK.

Dirty talking shadows in
dimly-lit smoke-filled bars
stir restless gonads to
suggestion, proposition
and sweet, nasty lies.
The scent of body sweat
mingles with department store
perfume like oil and water,
leather and silk –
unlikely, yet strangely magnetic.
Oh yeah …
I love the way the lie
exuding from your posing stance
binds my wrists and genitals
pulling me to my knees,
demanding nameless submission.
Across the distance we begin a
sultry dance of anonymous flirtation:
I turn to catch your stare,
you look away;
my eyes drop to my cocktail,
yours slowly scan my torso and loins.
I acknowledge with a smile and you
walk away because I broke the rules,
was too eager to collude fantasy
with reality and was, therefore, unsafe.
You feign indifference as you watch me
leave with another two hours later.
And I’m already half-spent as
I prepare to torpedo our dirty talk
into the bowels of my compromise.

BLADE.

our dance is ritual;
a senseless obsession
between two moths
playing with fire.
no chains, no whips.
just bondage … and the
ever-sweet consequence of
a saber’s cutting edge.

FOR THE BOYS (with AIDS).

To friends who don’t know
and strangers who don’t care,
soldiers of love worship
tinsel-town sex goddesses
with all their strength.
They thrive outwardly on
the rantings of Madonna and
privately soothe their pain
and hopelessness with somber
strains by Leonard Cohen.
Their greatest ambition is
to shake the shackles of shame
which imprison and threaten
them with the most undignified
fate of all: namelessness.
To some there is no irony in death,
but others are enraged at the
uncanny plight of these handsome
living dead whose only crime was
need for love and recognition.

SURVIVOR.

Yeah, he’s a survivor …
His alcoholic mother has breast cancer;
and his ‘dad’ left long before
he was born.
Living in a trailer park
has its perks: no one really
cares if you stay out all night …
or for days on end, for that matter.
Yeah, he’s a survivor …
His sister is an ex-whore;
struggling to stay ‘clean’
so she can keep her job
as a cashier at Wal-Mart.
Her loser live-in boyfriend is
a ‘good-for-nothing’ …
a fucking bum who
won’t even bother to recycle
bottles discarded in garbage
receptacles or containers.
Yeah, he’s a survivor …
He gets beaten every other day
at school; and slapped once-a-week
at home. He’s used to it: doesn’t care
anymore really, but he has recently
begun carrying a switchblade to see if it
can be a deterrent … like going to war in Iraq.
He dreams of getting a handgun, and is hoping
that someone famous will one day pimp his ride.
Yeah, he’s a survivor …
He takes his HIV-meds when he remembers.
Life is a sweet mixture: sometimes ‘heaven’,
and oftentimes ‘hell’ … depending on the ‘high’,
the sex or the lack of either (or both).
A neighbor-punk called him ‘faggot’ once …
He just smiled … causing the asshole
to run in haste and fear. Who cares?!!
It’s all temporary anyway; what with
global warming, nuclear threats, serial killers
and terrorism .. and those fucking ‘super malls’.
His favorite posters in his room are pictures
of victims: from the second world war, from
natural catastrophes, from terrorist attacks …
anyone who reminds him that he is one of
the lucky ones.
Doesn’t matter. For the moment anyway.
At least that’s what he thinks when his
mom blasts the old disco hit “I will survive!” …
the one time in a blue moon when he
sets himself down to do his homework.
Yeah, he’s a survivor …

HERITAGE? RIGHT!

Heritage … right!
So what has your generation
really passed on to me?!!
A set of identities that often don’t fit;
a world riddled with standardization,
wars,
lies,
plastic reality-show idols,
virus,
global warming,
uncertainty,
and all too easy access to drugs …
(that sweet salvation that ultimately enslaves).
Sure, I respect what you worked for:
a sense of potential, and the
personal freedom to express my
‘right to be me’.
But what the fuck does it matter when
individual isolation in an
out-of-control jungle presses me
further inward than you ever were?
I won’t give up today’s cyber-existence;
but sometimes I really do envy your
‘Good old days’ …
Heritage … right!

(from “Gaytude: a poetic journey around the world”)

L.A. HOMEBOY

Hey Homeboy!
Ran into Faith, your woman,
up in the barrio last Saturday.
She wanted to know how her ‘homeboy’ is.
I told her you was still doin’ time.
Her ma won’t let her write,
but it ain’t been the same, bro’.
Little Julio’s started dealin’ crack,
and she’s two months pregnant.
When I asked her if the kid
was yours, she started cryin’.
I didn’t know what to do, man;
so I put my arm around her
and mumbled: “You gotta keep the fai …”
Then I stopped, dried her tears
and smiled, while sayin’:
“If Homeboy was here, he’d tell you
to keep the baby, Faith.”

(from “Collected poems and stories”)

CLOUDBURST.

breakdancing clouds
laughingly roar
with all the grace
of shattering glass.

(from “Collected poems and stores”)

SHELTER.

When dusk acquiesces
to the shelter of night,
overpowering the
songs of crickets and
silent movements
of creepy-crawlers,
a quiet calm
overtakes
the ruminations of
my psyche
allowing soul regression
to dance
in the matrix
between experience
and remembrance.

FRAGMENTS.

Dulled slivers of emotion
no longer entangled with
words flutter and scurry
out-of-sequence.
Once air-bound, the
footloose fragments of
a life gone past seek
resolution and release by
eluding recognition and
assuaging the sharpness of reality.
And quite relentlessly these
now-transformed bits of
parchment confetti find new
definition by recreating history.

(from “Three-legged Waltz”)

DOG DAYS.

On dog days,
when nothing goes right,
impatient young men grumble
that the gods are
not on their side.
Their pursed lips
may boast indifference
but tell-tale scars
of self-abuse underscore
the misery of defeat.

PEER GROUP HEROES.

To inner-city true believers,
average is the ugly consequence
of weakness and error –
their idols being tv immortals,
and greatest foe time.
Suitably, peer group heroes
inspire the less visible
with eloquently-layered lies –
and not once disassociate
mask from morality.

(from “Collected poems and stories”)

BOUNDARIES.

Peripheral lines
in my psyche
and yours
dance and intersect
with agreement
and understanding.
But crossed
boundaries
lead both
dogs and nations
to quarrel.

(from “Three-legged Waltz)

I have published various literary works: poems, stories, novellas/short novels, literary criticism, essays, art photography criticism; and also work with painting and photography. I was born in the USA, and reside in Norway. I have been a professional visual artist (since 1995) and a writer (since 1987). I have published 11 books, in USA, Norway and India, as well as several short works in literary publications. Among my many literary and artistic themes are multilingualism, the transcultural, spiritual development, societal development, LGBT issues, hiv/aids etc. I have written, performed and published works in English, Spanish, French and Norwegian. My poetry and essays have been translated into several languages, including: Spanish, French, Russian, Japanese and Bengali.

I have had one-man and group exhibitions at art galleries and public institutions in Norway and Sweden. My most recent exhibitions include a group exhibition at the R5 Gallery – Government Ministry Gallery in Oslo, a one-man show at the Rådhus galleri (Oslo City Hall Gallery) in November-December 2009, and my one-man exhibition (art photography) at S9 Galleri in Oslo in June of 2011. My art serves as book cover art and internet art as well as fine art.

Adam’s profile at Saatchi Online Gallery

Printed book publications:

MOST RECENTLY RELEASED (BY CYBERWIT.NET):

The tunnel at the end of time (co-written with Rick Davis and Azsacra Zarathustra), Cyberwit.net, ISBN 978-81-8253-160-4 , © 2010, India.

PREVIOUS PUBLICATIONS:

Malerier og fotokunst,a short 38-page retrospective overview of some of Adam Donaldson Powell’s best known oil paintings and photographic art works. Published by Cyberwit.net as a special limited and numbered full-color, soft cover edition (55 copies only), ISBN 978-81-8253-154-3, India, © 2009.

Gaytude: a poetic journey around the world, gay poetry in English and French by Albert Russo and Adam Donaldson Powell, 335 pages, published by Xlibris Corporation, © 2009,
Library of Congress Control Number: 2008907964, ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4363-6396-9, ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4363-6395-2, USA.

2014: the life and adventures of an incarnated angel, 135 pages, Cyberwit.net, ISBN 978-81-8253-118-5, © 2008, India.

Critical Essays, literary and photobook criticism by Adam Donaldson Powell and Dr. Santosh Kumar, 108 pages, Cyberwit.net, ISBN 978-81-8253-110-9, © 2008, India.

Le Paradis (Paradise), 80 pages, Cyberwit.net, ISBN 978-81-8253-103-1, © 2008, India. Includes a booklet with symbols from The Universal Language of Light, as seen by Laila Holand.

Rapture: endings of space and time (86 pages), Cyberwit,net, ISBN 978-81-8253-083-6, © 2007, India.

Three-legged Waltz, (80 pages), Cyberwit.net, ISBN 818253058X, © 2006, India.

Collected Poems and Stories, (175 pages), Cyberwit.net, ISBN 8182530288, © 2005, India.

Arcana and other archetypes, (special limited edition – hardback collection of poetry), AIM Chapbooks ANS, © 2001, Norway (now out-of-print).

Notes of a Madman, (hardback collection of poetry), Winston-Derek Publishers, Inc., © 1987, ISBN 1-55523-054-7, USA (now out-of-print).

NEW E-BOOK, RELEASED IN NOVEMBER 2010! ORDER “THE STALKER – Tale of a French Bitch” NOW AT: AMAZON KINDLE BOOKS!

The Stalker (Tale of a French Bitch) is a story that explores the battle between the sexes, sexual orientation, questions of gender and the psychological aspects of personal identity. Rachel, the main character, suffers from multiple personality disorder and enters into a relationship with a transsexual in transition (a shemale). There are many twists and turns to this bilingual tale, which is mostly written in English but which also includes a bit of French.

NB. Don’t own a Kindle device? No problem. You can still read e-books from Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk. See iTunes for free kindle apps for your iPhone, iPod, iPad, personal computer and other devices.

MY OTHER AMAZON.COM E-BOOKS INCLUDE:

- The Tunnel at the End of Time: ORDER IT AT AMAZON KINDLE BOOKS!

- 2014: the life and adventures of an incarnated angel: ORDER IT AT AMAZON KINDLE BOOKS!

- Entre Nous: ORDER IT AT AMAZON KINDLE BOOKS!

SEE MY AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE: AT AMAZON!

CHECK OUT MY NEW PROMOTIONAL VIDEO HERE!

NB. This is best viewed with Safari or Mozilla Firefox. Enjoy!

Other publication experience (selected):

Essays, literary criticism and photobook criticism by Adam Donaldson Powell have appeared in many literary magazines, literary websites, newspapers etc., including but not limited to: Small Press Review, Ginyu, Los Muestros, Inyathi, Lynx Online Literary Magazine, Skyline Review, Taj Mahal Review, Samora Magazine, Kritya: a journal of poetry, Writer’s Cramp, Portugal News, Skyline Magazine’s and Hudson View Poetry Digest’s literary criticism website etc. Adam has reviewed many talented authors and art photography book artists, including: Albert Russo, Pradip Choudhuri, Jan Oskar Hansen, Shirley Bolstok, Robert P. Craig, Mary Barnet, Literary House Review 2007, Orania Hamilton, AZsacra Zarathustra and Jgor Pyatinin, Geert Verbeke, Barbara Elizabeth Mercer, Alan D. Busch, Fernando Rodríguez, Victoria Valentine, Vijaiganga, Marie Mappley, Robert M. Wilson, Linda A. Peters, Ban’ya Natsuishi, Sayumi Kamakura, Moshé Liba, T. Wignesan etc.

Adam has written prefaces for books, and edited novels and books of poetry, as well as individual poems and short stories, written by several other authors.

Adam’s own literary works and artworks have appeared in several literary reviews and journals, anthologies, online magazines, literary websites etc. on several continents.

Distinctions and memberships:

GAYTUDE IS THE 2009 NATIONAL INDIE EXCELLENCE AWARD WINNER FOR THE CATEGORY GAY/LESBIAN NONFICTION!

Adam Donaldson Powell has been listed amongst notable GLBT writers of all time: here!

Steering committee, WORDS: one path to peace and understanding, Oslo, 2008. Read the ONLINE REPORT.

Winner of the AZsacra International Poetry Award, 2008

Recipient of Norwegian Foreign Ministry’s travel stipend for authors, 2005.

MEMBER OF:
BONO
World Poets Society
Poetas del Mundo
Norwegian P.E.N.
Bilingual MCA
IFLAC-Argentina

DEGREES AND EDUCATION:
New York University, Master of Public Administration, 1985.
Goddard College, Bachelor of Arts, 1974.
Language studies in Norwegian, Spanish and French in the USA and Norway.
Post-graduate studies in international business administration (BI School of Management).
Private piano studies with several renowned concert pianists, including: Jacob Lateiner, Arminda Canteros, Berenice Lipsen-Grüzen and John Ranck.

POETRY PERFORMANCE:

Adam has performed his poetry in English, French, Spanish and Norwegian, and at various venues from New York City to Oslo to Buenos Aires to Kathmandu.

(above photo courtesy Blikk Magazine, Norway)

NEWS! THE STALKER (tale of a French Bitch).

A short excerpt:

Rachel seemed to be back-in-form as she followed the priest in the direction of the toilets, showing no problems balancing herself on her heels. Once in the hallway where the toilets were located, Rachel steadied herself against the wall and waited a couple of minutes before pushing open the door to the men’s room and walking inside – careful to assure herself that no one was following or watching her. Once inside she confirmed that they were all alone. The priest was standing in front of a urinal and was lost in his thoughts. “I will give you something to think about,” said Rachel to herself. She quickly looked around the men’s room for a weapon but everything seemed to be bolted down in the austerely-furnished men’s room. About to give up and leave the toilet, Rachel then spied a metal trash receptable under the hand drier next to the door. She quickly snatched up the receptacle and repeatedly bashed the priest, exclaiming: “This is a privilege I am about to bestow upon you!”

The bleeding priest was cowering, and looking quite pitiful and shocked as he cried out: “Dear woman! What devilry has possessed you to attack an innocent priest in this way? I …”

But Rachel was no longer Rachel, and Emily was pissed. She was pissed at all priests, at all men … and at all who had ever hurt her. And she coldly responded by continuing to bash the poor man with the trash receptable while saying: “Never again. Tell your fellow thugs that they never must fuck with me.” And smashing him senseless with each word, she repeated: “DO (bash with trash receptacle) … NOT (bash with trash receptacle) … FUCK (bash with trash receptacle) WITH (bash with trash receptacle) ME!!!” She completed the ritual by throwing the receptacle at the man, who was now lying on the floor like a wet dishrag – bloody and near unconscious. Emily splashed some cold water onto her face, tried to remove as much of the “silly make-up” as possible, and Rachel (now back, and seeing what Emily had done) affected calm as she hurriedly exited the men’s room – as if all were perfectly normal. Once back in the hallway, she hurried past a cleaning woman pushing a cart – who was on her way out of the personnel toilet and entering the neighboring ladies’ room – and back to the table where Sébastien was still studying the menu.

NEWS! ENTRE NOUS (a gay erotic fantasy).

NEW E-BOOK! ORDER “ENTRE NOUS” (multilingual and erotic) NOW AT: AMAZON KINDLE BOOKS: ENTRE NOUS

Adam Donaldson Powell has been listed amongst notable GLBT writers of all time: here!

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