Me and Mr. Jones

two latch on to each other out of desire.
habits form and love becomes.
a sense of belonging or responsibility to maintain?

entropy cannot be contained though two can remain together.
habits do not necessitate lifelessness.
united in movement, a regular path follows love.

Regardless of whether or not I believe in them, they lay before me,
undeniable. Facts, objects, the relics of an evening dripping with
beginnings.

I am now aware of elements of myself. We left behind the performance
and entered real life. You remained here next to me, as hopefully
you shall.

i enjoy our walks

hold me tightly

sharing responsibilities is nice

stay inside me

let’s pass the time together

i need this

My perceptions are not faulty and I notice everything.
What you have done I do not understand and it upsets
our balance.

And then I ask you, and you deny what I know, and it’s
as if you take the full power of the world’s transgressions
and attack.

Why would you lie to me? Looking in my face, professing
love and spilling hate. I want to tear out your tongue.
Stop talking!

Apologies do nothing. I cannot forget. It is not the
innocent mistake you want me to believe. It is a pain
that endures.

neglect has a presence. that extreme feeling of need that i can’t ignore
when you just sit there.
at times it is painful, and others simply desire.
why won’t you just look at me?
perhaps a little smile? or touch?
i begin to fear i am not actually here.

if you were to stop talking, and move your hand
i could relax. i am done with the conversation
and the questions. i would like to sit.
is there an end to your need?
i do what i can, and i offer you my best.
perhaps i am not enough for you.

let’s embrace and come together!
i want to forget this thing
and love!

can you please just let be.
why must i do these other things
in order to love?

innocently regretful and still longing, why not take action if it is assumed already? or perhaps another drink. why don’t you simply understand me for who i am and how i love? and why do we eternally return to these moments? and why must we always do these things? speak the words, i’ll settle down.

i have only the dimmest memory
i knew he wouldn’t let me kiss him
“i have halitosis,” he said,
“i’m afraid you’ll have to manage alone.”

i helped him out of his shirt and
glanced in that brief interval of nudity
the inhaled diaphragm
pressing up into the minute ribs.

“I mean, it’s not as if you often do.”
he laughed, sheepishly, and turned around.
what else had i expected? i undressed
by the colored light of the window.

i don’t think the leaves knew
they were turning to flame.
headlights coming around the curve transected me.
“are you all right, darling?”

not wanting to seem helpless and scare him off
i began to look about for more permanent,
i mean relatively permanent,
relations with men.

Hello, new friends!

I am inordinately happy to have you around for our mutual enjoyment. (Of course, I will enjoy it a little less than you if you aren’t also leaving comments during your trips through my past…) It’s been over a year since I’ve really thought I might be gaining a new audience. Or at least written about these thoughts.

In fact, lately I’ve been writing about not writing, or about drinking, or any other aimless mopey type things that reflect my evenings as of late. BUT NOT NOW!!! You’ve changed all of that.

By merely taking the leap of faith to curisouly click on the hyperlink provided you have entered a realm of fascinating memories dripping with sexual frustration and a not-so-subtle need to pose as an exhibitionist.

Oh, but you also get to meet Tony and his myriad personas as he helps me tell any story by preserving my not-so-veiled identity. Let me give you an example:

Tony has realized lately that he has been dealing with an extreme self-doubt that caused him to spend much of his formative years in the closet. It wasn’t, unfortunately, the closet where many queer youths find themselves hiding their true inclinations from the judging world. No, Tony’s closet simply incarcerated his desire and caused him to flee from any real opportunity to express it. The world knew he was gay. He knew it, too. And he loved the idea. But it was simply the idea he loved. The actual act scared him for some reason. So he adopted the saucy flirtatious (and drunken) persona that kept him alive for years. He wore the duds, he drank the sauce, and he flirted his way into the hearts of millions. Only to find himself lately filled with longing for missed opportunities. So many young men (he exaggerates) whose affections he teased. And now the self-doubt grows and his gut is beginning to show. What was it he was afraid of? “Disappointment,” he offers. These are how things work themselves out in Tony’s pickled mind.

Well, that wasn’t the best example but whatever. You stick around and you are bound to find something worth your while.

it’s the point in the evening when all things point to bed. Thom is already snuggled down for the evening. i’ve had a couple nightcaps and so the eyelids are feeling droopy. and the hours are counting down until the moment when i have to get up and perform another day’s routine. and it is usually at this point that i have no interest in sleeping whatsoever.

tonight i remet Amber. earlier i had an interview for a job i don’t really want. i napped this afternoon. and i taught something at some time today but it really probably wasn’t life changing. so today ends as it began.

but it rained hard before i napped and i was entirely fascinated by the darkened sky and thundery sounds that controlled the world i lived in. how many times have i seen rain? yet still it enthralls.

there are things yet to be written that can’t happen right before bed. i need to remember this earlier. yawn.

“I watched my country turn into
a coast-to-coast strip mall
and I cried out in a song:
if we could do all that in thirty years,
then please tell me you all –
why does good change take so long?
Why does the color of your skin
or who you choose to love
still lead to such anger and pain?
And why do I think it’s any help
for me to still dream of
playing the poet game?”

in the song i just quoted, “the poet game” by greg brown, involves remembering in colorful detail and basking in nostalgia. prophetic nostalgia. it popped up on the iPod while Thom and i were out walking. i realized then that i’m not actually being as self-indulgent as i assumed. perhaps i’m following some paths tread before?

i have before me a task again of writing for George some text for an acappella for some workshop in California. this will be my third collaboration with the music man, and i’m both excited and intimidated because i fear that i actually have not a lot to offer in the poet game.

but before i get there i’m settling down into the couch with a fancy beer and prepping to read a novel by james baldwin who is my momentary self-appointed patron saint of my future career in words. so perhaps.