***** of chest
against
fabric of shirt,
small hands, small feet,
baby face, weak muscles,
dainty wrists
and
sitting ****,
flat crotch, thick thighs,
mind is male, but body lies,
short height, false cheer,

i'll never be man enough,
my dear
this body hurts me.
Get me out of here.

it's been a while since i've written poetry,
and somehow i've found my way back,
sitting on my bed at 3:11 AM
while my entire county is in shelter-in-place,
evidence of tears on my cheeks,
heartbreaking short films in my YouTube history,
and my mind is scouring the earth
for the reason to live,
for a reason to live,
for any reasons to live.

the air smells of crisp pale pink flowers
dappled by a gentle pitter patter of April showers
glittering, smiling white lightning crowing hello,
tonight nature is gentle with her babies.

the sweetest storm you've ever seen,
and the flora and fauna seem to exhale in relief
soaking up the fertile juices to grow strong,
as the birds silence their chirps to listen to her voice,
as the fawns lick and nuzzle their fellow deer,
and I've got to wonder,

is the spirit of my mother here?

help isn't coming on horseback,
golden sun lighting its path.

help isn't a tall, strong man
with money and a nice warm laugh

help is small, futile,
lodged within my chest
buried by desperation
and poverty
and nowhere to go.

The hero is me. The knight is me,
with my worn secondhand clothing,
and aging face and creased frown
heart aching still from so many lies
come to California, now I'll die in California.
But I'll still have child's eyes.

Can't just die. My babies--
I led them in,
now I must get them out of Hell!

They dreamed of fresh, flourishing fields
enough extra money to have garments with lace!
but now they have broken hearts
seeping through their child's faces !

Stop me if I hope too much
I don't want to hurt so much
God knows I dreamed so much
God knows I earned so much !

I'll give the last of my bread
sing broken lullabies to calm my children's fear
I'll die over and over and over and over
so that my babies don't have to stay here.

I'm sorry that we don't have a shopping list
I'm sorry that you go to bed hungry
I'm sorry that life is like it is

I'm sorry that I got you into this.

A smooth head tilt toward the sidewalk,
he gently gestures for us to cross
When ignored, he snaps a bent leg into place
as naturally as he's attracted to men
soft, intelligent eyes glinting through his rainbow helmet

His cycle stutters like he did when asking Jason out,
breathing out life like he breathed out "I love you",
a mustang anxious to rear up and gallop
He soothes the handlebars with steady palms,
then unleashes his bike's power
as soon as we're safe
on the other side,

off to meet up at a romantic café
with a man named Peter Ryde.

when I die,
leave me as I am
with my greasy face,
and the streaks of blood,
keep me as the disgrace
I am.

Let it be in the night,
so that you may see the constellations
that I always treasured,
wherein I found Cancer,
and felt that Mom might be there.

So find Virgo,
and find me.

Play the theme from
Up,
and believe that I am
Up
there,
in the stars above.

For now,
I'll be here,
in the dumps below,
burying myself.