and the moon is you

May 29th, 2017 § 0 comments § permalink

 
to hide and reveal, to cover the moon with
a dime. to tuck, and conceal.

think: ragdoll
think: flesh and clothes
red nails and testosterone

you’re the ghost of a dream
more moon than a set sun

and soon: bound, twisting
in satellite.

zoom out: a steady glow
beat to a summer’s night.

 

Waterfalls: Here’s To Not Chasing Them

January 10th, 2016 § 0 comments § permalink

 

There is a girl. She evokes.

The usual bridges you cross to a heart—read her Charles Wright, show her the moon on a clear night—she’s not interested.

Here’s what you know.
You find her attractive. She is sharp. A generous smile. A big softie.
She isn’t afraid to show you attention. Her soul is her comfort is her skin.

Your heart pounds out of fear. In your hand you hold a tiny shred of romantic possibility. To keep it, to grow it, you must manage, stretch, thin, bulge. You could palm her the fisheye lens of you. You might be able to make. it. work. And to what end? You’ve threaded with dishonesty before. It dissolves in stitches, evidenced by scars. You would recover, of course. But with more of the same.

So you talk. You are frank. There is a little something else mixed in. She agrees. Here’s where, historically, you would drag that something out. To stretch it so it blankets all other thoughts and feelings. A thin membrane, ultimately too thin for the sharp points. Here’s where you would chase the winning and find a thousand little failures.

Together, individually, you decide to let it ride. What happens if you let it ride? You don’t know.

There is a relief in leaving it alone. Relief that you have not, once again, hooked yourself to the tenuous. Your heart batter slows,

 

for this is grace.

 

And then the seeing. Seeing where stumbling by the lamplight has led, a new bridge (not one still swinging from your last crossing), a friendship just begun. Here’s to radical nourishment, to true ambition, to the bare-naked intimacy of friendship. You could have sold yourself short, so so short. Let’s see what happens when you don’t.

 

 

Listen for Me

December 19th, 2015 § 0 comments § permalink

Your hands,
They came here without you.
This poem came here without you.

I spend all week thinking about your hands
Muttering life into reticent freckles
Fumbling how not held, not cupped
to one ear, listening.

Bedlaced, head-cocked, divining
your sound by distance.

To be sure it’s just the house
settling.

When I say your hands are the
open road and you’re its traveler,
I’ve just given you my name.

This poem came here without you,
Your hands met me at the door.

I’m the noise I listen for.

 

The Practicing Queer

July 20th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

Being queer is a practice.

I am a practicing queer.

Practice being queer through sea-kissing.

Practice being queer by eye-gauging women.

Read queer writers on queerness to practice being queer.

 

But practice slips through fingers like cupped-water.

Do I lose a little queer when I choose half-and-half over whole?

Or close the backyard gate?

Pick lint off of the couch?

 

Man, no one is queer here because no one is practicing.

A queer hand can’t be held.

 

Unless I

Keep up the practice.

Keep up the practice.

Because I can’t just run alongside the knowing.

 

I’m new here

April 23rd, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

To these feet

Slung along porch steps

 

A quick glance tells me

I could open wider to your gaze

(Perhaps bannister straddled,

Head resting on hands piled

Imagining you between rotting wood

And my softening belly)

 

The problem here is the looking

It’s for someone who’s already already

 

I’m no one’s already anymore but mine

 

I’m much more controversial

When I’m asleep

Much more likely to

Much more