Posts for June 16, 2023 (page 4)

Eyes bloodshot from the blunt
you smoked before I arrived

We discuss Paul Celan
& I learn that you’re a classicist

You say your name starts with A
but your Grindr icon says S

Your belt comes off,
strikes my back

Grimace, & my mouth holds the weapon—-
you rub lotion where you struck me

The nightstand now littered
with a newly opened condom wrapper

You slip inside me (the magic of lube)—-
all my former lovers haunt me

I watch them make love to the people
they left me for, care for them,

Until I am nothing
SLUT with the smell of poppers

Your agape mouth—-RUSH—-you kiss me,
fuck me, hand hard to my face, saliva spit from your mouth

This is how I’m loved most intimately
by being made just a hole

You finish your glass of straight whiskey
before walking me to the door

[I have only had casual sex in this lifetime]
just before shutting it, ushering me out, you ask:

Do you believe in God?

We are surrounded
by tall trees
and children seated
on benches
The dog barks 
during silent prayer
and I feel a bit grayer
knowing I would rather
just lay in my cabin
and write

is too
short to express
all the mischief, crazy
joy, stubborn love existing in
one heart. 

In memoriam, dear Fletcher

I know trust 

or
I used to

long ago

she never said 
she was leaving

one day she just up and

left

i didn’t ask 
where she was going

i thought she’d be back 

but recently–
disappointment
betrayal
confusion

They’re the only ones
who walk through my door
without knocking

We’ve known each other 
for awhile

so, it’s okay

but I miss trust

how I always knew
she’d be there

until she wasn’t 

and most days 
I don’t recognize 
any other faces

Just the same 
old friends

that keep coming back

 How could I not linger over coffee
here in the Hofgarten, considering how often
enigmatic allusions have sent me scurrying—           
        libraries                       
            museums                                   
                opera houses           
        encountering                       
             questioning                                   
                struggling                                               
                    plumbing
profound depths:           
    my own ignorance                       
        set against a partial vision                                   
            unfathomed depths                                               
                unattained— 
I sip the coffee and relish the leafy silence,
and I marvel at the track my life has taken
because, on that day so many years ago,
I read Eliot— 

have a drink, I say
bottle in each hand
the old man grins
grabs at my offer
swigs one back
wipes with a sleeve
looks me in the eye
takes off his hat
bald patch shiny
I’m humbly, he says
in your debt sir,
but remember the
poor and needy,
weak and wounded,
sick and sore,
don’t just show up
at the beaches

Summer was

mornings full of possibility,

a season of new, exciting movies,

cartoons and comedy specials,

a long series of play dates,

days at my grandmother’s pool,

a trip to King’s Island,

delicious cookouts,

dazzling fireworks,

sleepovers

that went on for weeks,

video game marathons,

popsicles in plastic,

Batman ice cream

with gum ball eyes

from the ice cream man’s truck,

s’mores,

a break from school,

a break from homework,

a break from bullies,

being free from time,

being with friends,

being dragged to

Vacation Bible School

and church camp,

family reunions in Nashville,

always over too soon,

a time to read,

a time to play,

a time to dream,

a taste of Heaven

or at least a Heaven

I actually wanted to go to.

Noticed
My mouth wash was
20% A.B.V.
“Fuck. Do I have to start over…
Again?”

I’m stroking Otis
with my right hand,
my left arm around him,
my cheek against his neck.
It’s 92 degrees out,
and he’s flicking his tail,
back and forth at flys.
I’ve just nailed shoes
onto his hind feet.
A steady rhythm of 
bashing and scraping,
cutting and pulling,
yanking and yelling.
With each brush
of my hand, I whisper
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m
sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so
rry as round tears roll
down my face.
His black hairs stick
to my skin in the wetness
and when I pull back
he is looking at me
with endless, endless
eyes that don’t show
what he’s thinking.

When heliotrope and bellflower,
columbine and bee balm
rainbow my gardens—their
gowns and ruffles no trick 
of the light—my thoughts
go on pilgrimage to summers
at home and all the colors
that tailored my father’s lilies.
City boy and no born gardener,
his corn barely beat knee high.
But he loved lilies—resurrection
symbol—flowers he could
kneel beside.

Will my lilies, budding now by
our thick-walled stone house
bloom on his birthday again
this year—bloom with his
confidence in rainbow’s
lasting covenant?